The possessed or, The devils
out, with a certain dignity indeed. "Here is your novel, by the way." He
laid on the table a large heavy manuscript rolled up in blue paper.
Lembke turned red and looked embarrassed.
"Where did you find it?" he asked discreetly, with a rush of joy which
he was unable to suppress, though he did his utmost to conceal it.
"Only fancy, done up like this, it rolled under the chest of drawers. I
must have thrown it down carelessly on the chest when I went out. It was
only found the day before yesterday, when the floor was scrubbed. You
did set me a task, though!"
Lembke dropped his eyes sternly.
"I haven't slept for the last two nights, thanks to you. It was found
the day before yesterday, but I kept it, and have been reading it ever
since. I've no time in the day, so I've read it at night. Well, I don't
like it; it's not my way of looking at things. But that's no matter;
I've never set up for being a critic, but I couldn't tear myself away
from it, my dear man, though I didn't like it! The fourth and fifth
chapters are... they really are... damn it all, they are beyond words!
And what a lot of humour you've packed into it; it made me laugh! How
you can make fun of things _sans que cela paraisse!_ As for the ninth
and tenth chapters, it's all about love; that's not my line, but it's
effective though. I was nearly blubbering over Egrenev's letter, though
you've shown him up so cleverly.... You know, it's touching, though at
the same time you want to show the false side of him, as it were, don't
you? Have I guessed right? But I could simply beat you for the ending.
For what are you setting up? Why, the same old idol of domestic
happiness, begetting children and making money; 'they were married and
lived happy ever afterwards'--come, it's too much! You will enchant your
readers, for even I couldn't put the book down; but that makes it all
the worse! The reading public is as stupid as ever, but it's the duty
of sensible people to wake them up, while you... But that's enough.
Good-bye. Don't be cross another time; I came in to you because I had a
couple of words to say to you, but you are so unaccountable..."
Andrey Antonovitch meantime took his novel and locked it up in an oak
bookcase, seizing the opportunity to wink to Blum to disappear. The
latter withdrew with a long, mournful face.
"I am not unaccountable, I am simply... nothing but annoyances," he
muttered, frowning but without anger, and sitting down to the table.
"Sit down and say what you have to say. It's a long time since I've seen
you, Pyotr Stepanovitch, only don't burst upon me in the future with
such manners... sometimes, when one has business, it's..."
"My manners are always the same...."
"I know, and I believe that you mean nothing by it, but sometimes one is
worried.... Sit down."
Pyotr Stepanovitch immediately lolled back on the sofa and drew his legs
under him.
III
"What sort of worries? Surely not these trifles?" He nodded towards the
manifesto. "I can bring you as many of them as you like; I made their
acquaintance in X province."
"You mean at the time you were staying there?"
"Of course, it was not in my absence. I remember there was a hatchet
printed at the top of it. Allow me." (He took up the manifesto.) "Yes,
there's the hatchet here too; that's it, the very same."
"Yes, here's a hatchet. You see, a hatchet."
"Well, is it the hatchet that scares you?"
"No, it's not... and I am not scared; but this business... it is a
business; there are circumstances."
"What sort? That it's come from the factory? He he! But do you know,
at that factory the workpeople will soon be writing manifestoes for
themselves."
"What do you mean?" Von Lembke stared at him severely.
"What I say. You've only to look at them. You are too soft, Andrey
Antonovitch; you write novels. But this has to be handled in the good
old way."
"What do you mean by the good old way? What do you mean by advising me?
The factory has been cleaned; I gave the order and they've cleaned it."
"And the workmen are in rebellion. They ought to be flogged, every one
of them; that would be the end of it."
"In rebellion? That's nonsense; I gave the order and they've cleaned
it."
"Ech, you are soft, Andrey Antonovitch!"
"In the first place, I am not so soft as you think, and in the second
place..." Von Lembke was piqued again. He had exerted himself to keep
up the conversation with the young man from curiosity, wondering if he
would tell him anything new.
"Ha ha, an old acquaintance again," Pyotr Stepanovitch interrupted,
pouncing on another document that lay under a paper-weight, something
like a manifesto, obviously printed abroad and in verse. "Oh, come, I
know this one by heart, 'A Noble Personality.' Let me have a look at
it--yes, 'A Noble Personality' it is. I made acquaintance with that
personality abroad. Where did you unearth it?"
"You say you've seen it abroad?" Von Lembke said eagerly.
"I should think so, four months ago, or may be five."
"You seem to have seen a great deal abroad." Von Lembke looked at him
subtly.
Pyotr Stepanovitch, not heeding him, unfolded the document and read the
poem aloud:
"A NOBLE PERSONALITY
"He was not of rank exalted,
He was not of noble birth,
He was bred among the people
In the breast of Mother Earth.
But the malice of the nobles
And the Tsar's revengeful wrath
Drove him forth to grief and torture
On the martyr's chosen path.
He set out to teach the people
Freedom, love, equality,
To exhort them to resistance;
But to flee the penalty
Of the prison, whip and gallows,
To a foreign land he went.
While the people waited hoping
From Smolensk to far Tashkent,
Waited eager for his coming
To rebel against their fate,
To arise and crush the Tsardom
And the nobles' vicious hate,
To share all the wealth in common,
And the antiquated thrall
Of the church, the home and marriage
To abolish once for all."
"You got it from that officer, I suppose, eh?" asked Pyotr Stepanovitch.
"Why, do you know that officer, then, too?"
"I should think so. I had a gay time with him there for two days; he was
bound to go out of his mind."
"Perhaps he did not go out of his mind."
"You think he didn't because he began to bite?"
"But, excuse me, if you saw those verses abroad and then, it appears, at
that officer's..."
"What, puzzling, is it? You are putting me through an examination,
Andrey Antonovitch, I see. You see," he began suddenly with
extraordinary dignity, "as to what I saw abroad I have already given
explanations, and my explanations were found satisfactory, otherwise I
should not have been gratifying this town with my presence. I consider
that the question as regards me has been settled, and I am not obliged
to give any further account of myself, not because I am an informer, but
because I could not help acting as I did. The people who wrote to Yulia
Mihailovna about me knew what they were talking about, and they said I
was an honest man.... But that's neither here nor there; I've come
to see you about a serious matter, and it's as well you've sent
your chimney-sweep away. It's a matter of importance to me, Andrey
Antonovitch. I shall have a very great favour to ask of you."
"A favour? H'm... by all means; I am waiting and, I confess, with
curiosity. And I must add, Pyotr Stepanovitch, that you surprise me not
a little."
Von Lembke was in some agitation. Pyotr Stepanovitch crossed his legs.
"In Petersburg," he began, "I talked freely of most things, but there
were things--this, for instance" (he tapped the "Noble Personality" with
his finger) "about which I held my tongue--in the first place, because
it wasn't worth talking about, and secondly, because I only answered
questions. I don't care to put myself forward in such matters; in that
I see the distinction between a rogue and an honest man forced by
circumstances. Well, in short, we'll dismiss that. But now... now that
these fools... now that this has come to the surface and is in your
hands, and I see that you'll find out all about it--for you are a man
with eyes and one can't tell beforehand what you'll do--and these fools
are still going on, I... I... well, the fact is, I've come to ask you
to save one man, a fool too, most likely mad, for the sake of his youth,
his misfortunes, in the name of your humanity.... You can't be so humane
only in the novels you manufacture!" he said, breaking off with coarse
sarcasm and impatience.
In fact, he was seen to be a straightforward man, awkward and
impolitic from excess of humane feeling and perhaps from excessive
sensitiveness--above all, a man of limited intelligence, as Von Lembke
saw at once with extraordinary subtlety. He had indeed long suspected
it, especially when during the previous week he had, sitting alone
in his study at night, secretly cursed him with all his heart for the
inexplicable way in which he had gained Yulia Mihailovna's good graces.
"For whom are you interceding, and what does all this mean?" he inquired
majestically, trying to conceal his curiosity.
"It... it's... damn it! It's not my fault that I trust you! Is it
my fault that I look upon you as a most honourable and, above all, a
sensible man... capable, that is, of understanding... damn..."
The poor fellow evidently could not master his emotion.
"You must understand at last," he went on, "you must understand that in
pronouncing his name I am betraying him to you--I am betraying him, am I
not? I am, am I not?"
"But how am I to guess if you don't make up your mind to speak out?"
"That's just it; you always cut the ground from under one's feet with
your logic, damn it.... Well, here goes... this 'noble personality,'
this 'student'... is Shatov... that's all."
"Shatov? How do you mean it's Shatov?"
"Shatov is the 'student' who is mentioned in this. He lives here, he was
once a serf, the man who gave that slap...."
"I know, I know." Lembke screwed up his eyes. "But excuse me, what is he
accused of? Precisely and, above all, what is your petition?"
"I beg you to save him, do you understand? I used to know him
eight years ago, I might almost say I was his friend," cried Pyotr
Stepanovitch, completely carried away. "But I am not bound to give you
an account of my past life," he added, with a gesture of dismissal. "All
this is of no consequence; it's the case of three men and a half, and
with those that are abroad you can't make up a dozen. But what I
am building upon is your humanity and your intelligence. You will
understand and you will put the matter in its true light, as the foolish
dream of a man driven crazy... by misfortunes, by continued misfortunes,
and not as some impossible political plot or God knows what!"
He was almost gasping for breath.
"H'm. I see that he is responsible for the manifestoes with the axe,"
Lembke concluded almost majestically. "Excuse me, though, if he were the
only person concerned, how could he have distributed it both here and
in other districts and in the X province... and, above all, where did he
get them?"
"But I tell you that at the utmost there are not more than five people
in it--a dozen perhaps. How can I tell?"
"You don't know?"
"How should I know?--damn it all."
"Why, you knew that Shatov was one of the conspirators."
"Ech!" Pyotr Stepanovitch waved his hand as though to keep off the
overwhelming penetration of the inquirer. "Well, listen. I'll tell you
the whole truth: of the manifestoes I know nothing--that is, absolutely
nothing. Damn it all, don't you know what nothing means?... That
sub-lieutenant, to be sure, and somebody else and someone else here...