“Pray accept my work,… You say it is not serious, but … it is difficult to give a title to a thing before you have seen it.… Besides, is it possible you cannot admit that an examining magistrate can write serious works?”
All this Kamyshev said stammeringly, twisting a pencil about between his fingers and looking at his feet. He finished by blinking his eyes and becoming exceedingly confused. I was sorry for him.
“All right, leave it,” I said. “But I can't promise that your story will be read very soon. You will have to wait.…”
“How long?”
“I don't know. Look in … in about two to three months.…”
“That's pretty long.… But I dare not insist.… Let it be as you say.…”
Kamyshev rose and took up his cap.
“Thank you for the audience,” he said. “I will now go home and dwell in hope. Three months of hope! However, I am boring you. I have the honour to bid you good-bye!”
“One word more, please,” I said as I turned over the pages of his thick copy-book, which were written in a very small handwriting. “You write here in the first person.… You therefore mean the examining magistrate to be yourself?”
“Yes, but under another name. The part I play in this story is somewhat scandalous.… It would have been awkward to give my own name.… In three months, then?”