Andrei Antonovich meanwhile took his novel and locked it up in the oak bookcase, having managed in the meantime to wink at Blum to efface himself. The latter vanished with a long and sad face.
"I do not seem somehow, I'm simply... nothing but troubles," he muttered, scowling, though no longer wrathfully, and sitting down at the desk. "Sit down and tell me your two little words. I haven't seen you for a long time, Pyotr Stepanovich, only in future don't come flying in with that manner of yours... sometimes, when one is busy, it's..."
"I always have the same manners..."
"I know, sir, and I believe it is unintentional, but sometimes, amidst all this bustle ... Sit down now."
Pyotr Stepanovich sprawled on the sofa and immediately tucked his legs up.
III
"And what is all this bustle—you can't mean these trifles?" he nodded towards the tract. "I can drag in as many of these leaflets as you like, I already made their acquaintance in Kh—— province."
"You mean, when you were living there?"
"Well, naturally, not when I wasn't. There's a vignette, a drawing of an axe, at the top.[131] Excuse me" (he picked up the tract), "ah, yes, here's the axe; it's the same one, exactly."
"Yes, an axe. See—an axe."
"And what, are you afraid of the axe?"
"Not of the axe... and not afraid, sir, but this matter is... such a matter, there are circumstances here."
"Which? That they were turned in from the factory? Heh, heh. You know, you'll soon have the workers at that factory writing tracts themselves."
"How's that?" von Lembke stared sternly.
"Just so. With you looking on. You're too soft, Andrei Antonovich; you write novels. What's needed here are the old methods."
"What do you mean, the old methods, what sort of advice is that? The factory has been cleaned up; I gave orders, it was cleaned up."
"Yet there's rioting among the workers. They all ought to be whipped, and there's an end to it."
"Rioting? Nonsense, I gave orders and it was cleaned up."
"Eh, what a soft man you are, Andrei Antonovich!"
"In the first place, I am by no means so soft, and in the second ..." von Lembke felt stung again. He forced himself to talk with the young man out of curiosity, on the chance that he might tell him a little something new.
"Ahh, again an old acquaintance!" Pyotr Stepanovich interrupted, sighting another sheet of paper under the paperweight, also looking like a tract, apparently of foreign imprint, but in verse. "Why, this one I know by heart, it's 'The Shining Light.' Let me see: yes, so it is, 'The Shining Light.' I've been acquainted with this light ever since I was abroad. Where did you dig it up?"
"You say you saw it abroad?" von Lembke roused himself.
"Sure thing, about four months ago, or even five."
"You saw quite a lot abroad, however," von Lembke glanced at him subtly. Pyotr Stepanovich, without listening, unfolded the paper and read the poem aloud:
The Shining Light
A man of high birth he was not, Among the people he cast his lot.
Hounded by the wrath of tsars, The jealous malice of boyars, He from suffering drew not back, From torment, torture, nor the rack, But firm before the people stood, For liberty, equality, and brotherhood.
And when rebellion once was sparked, He then for foreign lands embarked, Escaping thus the tsar's redoubt, The tongs, the hangman, and the knout, While the people, cursing empty skies, Against harsh fate prepared to rise, And from Smolensk to far Tashkent Awaited only the student.
All were awaiting his return So they could go without concern To rid themselves of cruel boyars, To rid themselves of greedy tsars, To hold all property as one, And take their just revenge upon Marriage, church, and family ties— Evils in which the old world lies.[132]
"You must have taken it from that officer, eh?" Pyotr Stepanovich asked.
"So you have the honor of knowing that officer as well?"
"Sure thing. I feasted with them there for two days. He was bound to lose his mind."
"Perhaps he never did lose his mind."
"You mean since he started biting?"
"But, I beg your pardon, if you saw this poem abroad, and then, it turns out, here at this officer's..."
"What, intricate? I see, so you're examining me, Andrei Antonovich? You see, sir," he began suddenly, with unusual importance, "of what I saw abroad I already gave my explanations to certain persons on my return, and my explanations were found satisfactory, otherwise I would not have bestowed the happiness of my presence upon this town. I think that my affairs in that sense are done with, and that I do not owe any reports. Done with, not because I am an informer, but because I was unable to act otherwise. Those who wrote to Yulia Mikhailovna, knowing the situation, said I was an honest man... Well, and that's all, devil take it, because I came to tell you something serious, and it's a good thing you sent that chimney sweep of yours away. The matter is important for me, Andrei Antonovich; I have an extraordinary request to make of you."
"A request? Hm, please do, I'm waiting, and, I confess, with curiosity. And generally I will add that you rather surprise me, Pyotr Stepanovich."
Von Lembke was in some agitation. Pyotr Stepanovich crossed his legs.
"In Petersburg," he began, "I spoke candidly about many things, but certain other things—this, for instance" (he tapped "The Shining Light" with his finger), "I passed over in silence, first, because it wasn't worth speaking about, and second, because I answered only what I was asked. I don't like getting ahead of myself in that sense; here I see the difference between a scoundrel and an honest man, who quite simply was overtaken by circumstances... Well, in short, let's set that aside. Well, sir, and now... now that these fools... well, now that this has come out and is in your hands and, I see, will not be concealed from you—because you are a man with eyes, and you can't be second-guessed, whereas these fools are still going on with it—I... I... well, yes, in short, I've come to ask you to save one man, one more fool, a madman perhaps, in the name of his youth, his misfortunes, in the name of your own humaneness ... It can't be that you're so humane only in novels of your own fabrication!" he suddenly broke off his speech impatiently and with rude sarcasm.
In short, one beheld a direct man, but an awkward and impolitic one, owing to an excess of humane feeling and a perhaps unnecessary ticklishness—above all, a none-too-bright man, as von Lembke judged at once with extreme subtlety, and as he had long supposed him to be, especially during the last week, alone in his study, especially at night, when he privately cursed him with all his might for his inexplicable successes with Yulia Mikhailovna.