and painful thoughts that had suddenly entered my mind… The thoughts were really painful, unbearably sharp. It appeared to me that I, neither an examining magistrate nor even a psychological juryman, had discovered the terrible secret of a man, a secret that did not concern me in the slightest degree. I paced the terrace and tried to persuade myself not to believe in my discovery…
Kamyshev’s story did not appear in my newspaper for reasons that I will explain at the end of my talk with the reader. I shall meet the reader once again. Now, when I am leaving him for a long time, I offer Kamyshev’s story for his perusal.
It is not an unusual story. There are longueurs in it, there are things crudely expressed… The author is too fond of effects and melodramatic phrases… It is evident that he is writing for the first time, his hand is unaccustomed, uneducated. Nevertheless his narrative reads easily. There is a plot, a meaning, too, and what is most important, it is original, very characteristic and what may be called sui generis. It also possesses certain literary qualities. It is worth reading. Here it is.
CHAPTER I
‘The husband killed his wife! Oh, how stupid you are! Give me some sugar!’
These cries awoke me. I stretched myself, feeling indisposition and heaviness in every limb. One can lie upon one’s legs or arms until they are numb, but now it seemed to me that my whole body, from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet, was benumbed. An afternoon snooze in a sultry, dry atmosphere amid the buzzing and humming of flies and mosquitoes does not act in an invigorating manner but has an enervating effect. Broken and bathed in perspiration, I rose and went to the window. The sun was still high and baked with the same ardour it had done three hours before. Many hours still remained until sunset and the coolness of evening.
‘The husband killed his wife!’
‘Stop lying, Ivan Dem’yanych!’ I said as I gave a slight tap to Ivan Dem’yanych’s nose. ‘Husbands kill their wives only in novels and in the tropics, where African passions boil over, my dear. For us such horrors as thefts and burglaries or people living on false passports are quite enough.’
‘Thefts and burglaries!’ Ivan Dem’yanych murmured through his hooked nose. ‘Oh, how stupid you are!’
‘What’s to be done, my dear? In what way are we mortals to blame for our brain having its limits? Besides, Ivan Dem’yanych, it is no sin to be a fool in such a temperature. You’re my clever darling, but doubtless your brain, too, gets addled and stupid in such heat.’
My parrot is not called Polly or by any other of the names given to birds, but he is called Ivan Dem’yanych. He got this name quite by chance. One day, when my man Polycarp was cleaning the cage, he suddenly made a discovery without which my noble bird would still have been called Polly. My lazy servant was suddenly blessed with the idea that my parrot’s beak was very like the nose of our village shopkeeper, Ivan Dem’yanych, and from that time the name and patronymic of our long-nosed shopkeeper stuck to my parrot. From that day Polycarp and the whole village christened my extraordinary bird ‘Ivan Dem’yanych’. Thanks to Polycarp the bird became a personage, and the shopkeeper lost his own name, and to the end of his days he will be known among the villagers by the nickname of the ‘magistrate’s parrot’.
I had bought Ivan Dem’yanych from the mother of my predecessor, the examining magistrate, Pospelov, who had died shortly before my appointment. I bought him together with some old oak furniture, various rubbishy kitchen utensils, and in general the whole of the household goods that remained after Pospelov’s death. My walls are still decorated with photographs of his relatives, and the portrait of the former occupant is still hanging above my bed. The departed, a lean, muscular man with a red moustache and a thick under-lip, sits looking at me with staring eyes from his faded nutwood frame all the time I am lying on his bed… I had not taken down a single photograph, I had left the house just as I found it. I am too lazy to think of my own comfort, and I don’t prevent either corpses or living men from hanging on my walls if the latter wish to do so.
Ivan Dem’yanych found it as sultry as I did. He fluffed out his feathers, spread his wings, and shrieked out the phrases he had been taught by my predecessor, Pospelov, and by Polycarp. To occupy in some way my after-dinner leisure, I sat down in front of the cage and began to watch the movements of my parrot, who was industriously trying, but without success, to escape from the torments he suffered from the suffocating heat and the insects that dwelt among his feathers… The poor thing seemed very unhappy…
‘At what time does he awake?’ was borne to me in a bass voice from the lobby.
‘That depends!’ Polycarp’s voice answered. ‘Sometimes he wakes at five o’clock, and sometimes he sleeps like a log till morning… Everybody knows he has nothing to do.’
‘You’re his valet, I suppose?’
‘His servant. Now don’t bother me; hold your tongue. Don’t you see I’m reading?’
I peeped into the lobby. My Polycarp was there, lolling on the large red trunk, and, as usual, reading a book. With his sleepy, unblinking eyes fixed attentively on his book, he was moving his lips and frowning. He was evidently irritated by the presence of the stranger, a tall, bearded muzhik, who was standing near the trunk persistently trying to inveigle him into conversation. At my appearance the muzhik took a step away from the trunk and drew himself up to attention. Polycarp looked dissatisfied, and without removing his eyes from the book he rose slightly.
‘What do you want?’ I asked the muzhik.
‘I have come from the Count, your honour. The Count sends you his greetings, and begs you to come to him at once…’
‘Has the Count arrived?’ I asked, much astonished.
‘Just so, your honour… He arrived last night… Here’s a letter, sir…’
‘What the devil has brought him back!’ my Polycarp grumbled. ‘Two summers we’ve lived peacefully without him and this year he’ll again make a pigsty of the district. It reflects on us, it’s shameful.’
‘Hold your tongue, your opinion is not asked!’
‘I need not be asked… You’ll come home drunk again, and go in the lake just as you are, in all your clothes… It’s I who have the job of cleaning them afterwards! And it takes three days and more!’
‘What’s the Count doing now?’ I asked the muzhik.
‘He was just sitting down to dinner when he sent me to you… Before dinner he was fishing from the bathing cabin, sir… What answer can I take?’
I opened the letter and read the following:
My Dear Lecoq,
If you are still alive, well, and have not forgotten your ever-drunken friend, do not delay a moment. Get dressed immediately and come to me. I only arrived last night and am already dying from ennui. The impatience I feel to see you knows no bounds. I wanted to drive over to see you and carry you off to my den, but the heat has utterly exhausted me. I simply sit about, fanning myself. Well, how are you? How is your clever Ivan Dem’yanych? Are you still at war with your scolding Polycarp? Come quickly and tell me everything.
Your A. K.
