Evidently he had forgotten all about the impending verdict and his thoughts were completely taken up with his children. He kept talking about them until he was stopped by the presiding judge.
The jury did not take long to reach a verdict. Urbenin was found guilty unconditionally and was not recommended for leniency on a single count. He was sentenced to loss of all civil rights and fifteen years’ hard labour.
So dearly did that meeting on a May morning with the romantic ‘girl in red’ cost him.
More than eight years have passed since the events described above. Some of the actors in the drama have departed this world and have already rotted away, others are suffering punishment for their sins, others are dragging out their lives, struggling with the tedium of a pedestrian existence and expecting death from day to day.
Much has changed during eight years. Count Karneyev, who never stopped entertaining the most sincere friendship for me, has finally become a hopeless drunkard. His estate – the scene of the crime – has passed from his hands into those of his wife and Pshekhotsky. He’s poor now and I support him. Some evenings, when he’s lying on the sofa in my flat, he loves to reminisce about the old times.
‘It would be nice to listen to the gipsies now,’ he mutters. ‘Send for some brandy, Seryozha!’
I too have changed. My strength is gradually deserting me and I feel that my health and youth are abandoning my body. No longer do I have the physical strength, the agility, the stamina that I took so much pride in flaunting at one time, when I didn’t go to bed for several nights running and drank quantities of alcohol that I could barely cope with now.
One after the other, wrinkles are appearing, my hair is going thin, my voice is growing coarser and weaker… Life is over…
I remember the past as if it were yesterday. I see places and have visions of people as if they were in a mist. I do not have the strength to view them impartially: I love and hate them as violently, as intensely as before, and not a day passes without my clutching my head in a fit of indignation or hatred. For me, the Count is as loathsome as ever, Olga revolting, Kalinin plain ridiculous with his stupid conceit. Evil I consider evil, sin I consider sin.
Yet there are often moments when I stare at the portrait that stands on my writing table and I feel an irresistible urge to go walking with the ‘girl in red’ in the forest, to the murmur of lofty pines, and to press her to my breast, despite everything. At these moments I forgive both her lies and that decline into the murky abyss: I am ready in forgive everything – if only a tiny fragment of the past could be repeated. Wearied by the boredom of the town, I would like to listen once more to the roar of the giant lake and gallop along its banks on my Zorka. I would forgive and forget everything if I could once again stroll along the road to Tenevo and meet Franz the gardener with his vodka barrel and jockey cap. There are moments when I’m even ready to shake that hand which is crimson with blood, discuss religion, the harvest, popular education with that good-natured Pyotr Yegorych. I would like to meet Screwy and his Nadenka again.
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.