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
