"Oh, God, everyone has those books; how simple you are, my poor Blum!"
"And many tracts," Blum went on without heeding the reproof. "We will certainly finish by finding the trail of actual local tracts. This young Verkhovensky I find quite, quite suspicious."
"But you're mixing up the father and the son. They're not on good terms; the son laughs openly at the father."
"That is just a mask."
"Blum, you're sworn to be the death of me! Think, he's a notable person here, after all. He used to be a professor, he's a well-known man, he'll make an outcry, and there will be jeering all over town, and the whole thing will go amiss... and think what will happen with Yulia Mikhailovna!"
Blum barged ahead without listening.
"He was just an assistant professor, just only an assistant professor, and is only a mere retired collegiate assessor in rank,"[135] he kept beating his breast, "he has no distinctions, he was fired from his post on suspicion of plotting against the government. He was under secret surveillance, and no doubt still is. And in view of the newly discovered disorders, your duty no doubt obliges you. And yet you, on the contrary, are letting your distinction slip, by conniving with the real culprit."
"Yulia Mikhailovna! Get ou-u-ut, Blum!" von Lembke suddenly cried, hearing his spouse's voice in the next room.
Blum gave a start, but did not yield.
"Permit me, do permit me," he edged forward, pressing both hands still more tightly to his breast.
"Get ou-u-ut!" Andrei Antonovich gnashed. "Do what you like... later... Oh, my God!"
The portière was raised, and Yulia Mikhailovna appeared. She stopped majestically on seeing Blum, looked him over haughtily and offendedly, as if the man's very presence there were an insult to her. Blum silently and respectfully made her a low bow and, stooping with respect, went to the door on tiptoe, his hands spread slightly.
Whether he indeed took Andrei Antonovich's last hysterical exclamation as direct permission to act as he had requested, or whether he played it false in this case for the direct good of his benefactor, being only too certain that the end would crown the affair—in any case, as we shall see below, this conversation between the superior and his subordinate produced a most unexpected result, which made many laugh, became publicly known, aroused the bitter wrath of Yulia Mikhailovna, and with all that left Andrei Antonovich finally bewildered, having thrown him, at the hottest moment, into the most lamentable indecision.
V
For Pyotr Stepanovich the day proved a bustling one. From von Lembke he quickly ran over to Bogoyavlensky Street, but going down Bykov Street, past the house where Karmazinov was lodging, he suddenly halted, grinned, and went into the house. "You are expected, sir," he was told, which highly intrigued him, because he had given no notice of his coming.
But the great writer was indeed expecting him, and had been even yesterday, and the day before. Three days earlier he had handed him the manuscript of his Merci (which he wanted to read at the literary matinée on the day of Yulia Mikhailovna's fête), and had done so as a favor, quite certain that he would pleasantly flatter the man's vanity by letting him acquaint himself with the great work beforehand. Pyotr Stepanovich had long ago noticed that this gentleman, conceited, spoiled, and insultingly unapproachable for the non-elect, this "all but statesmanly mind," was quite simply fawning on him, even eagerly so. I believe the young man finally realized that the older one considered him, if not the ringleader of everything covertly revolutionary in the whole of Russia, at least one of those most deeply initiated into the secrets of the Russian revolution and with an unquestionable influence on the young. The state of mind of "the most intelligent man in Russia" interested Pyotr Stepanovich, but up to now, for certain reasons, he had avoided any explanations.
The great writer lodged in the house of his sister, a court chamberlain's wife and a landowner; the two of them, husband and wife, stood in awe of their famous relation, but, to their great regret, during his present visit they were both in Moscow, so that the honor of receiving him went to a little old lady, a very distant and poor relation of the chamberlain's, who lived in their house and had long looked after all the housekeeping. With the arrival of Mr. Karmazinov, the household all began to go around on tiptoe. The little old lady notified Moscow almost daily of how he had reposed and upon what he had been pleased to dine, and once sent a telegram with the news that he had been obliged, after a formal dinner at the mayor's, to take a spoonful of a certain medication. She rarely ventured into his room, though he treated her politely, if dryly, and spoke with her only if there was some need. When Pyotr Stepanovich entered, he was eating his little morning cutlet with half a glass of red wine. Pyotr Stepanovich had visited him before and always found him over this little morning cutlet, which he went on eating in his presence without ever offering him anything. After the little cutlet, a small cup of coffee was served. The valet who brought the food wore a tailcoat, soft inaudible boots, and gloves.
"Ahh!" Karmazinov rose from the sofa, wiping his mouth with a napkin, and with an air of the purest joy came at him with his kisses—a habit characteristic of Russians if they are indeed so famous. But Pyotr Stepanovich recalled from previous experience that while he would come at you with his kisses, he would then let you have his cheek, and so this time he did the same; the two cheeks met.[136] Karmazinov, without showing that he had noticed it, sat down on the sofa and affably pointed Pyotr Stepanovich to the armchair facing him, in which the latter proceeded to sprawl.
"You wouldn't... Would you care for some lunch?" the host asked, abandoning his habit this time, but, of course, with an air that clearly prompted a polite refusal. Pyotr Stepanovich at once did care to have lunch. A shadow of hurt amazement darkened his host's face, but only for a moment; he nervously rang for the servant and, in spite of all his good breeding, raised his voice squeamishly as he ordered a second lunch to be served.
"What will you have, a cutlet or coffee?" he inquired once more.
"A cutlet and coffee, and have them bring more wine, I'm hungry," Pyotr Stepanovich replied, studying his host's attire with calm attention. Mr. Karmazinov was wearing a little quilted jerkin, a sort of jacket, with little mother-of-pearl buttons, but much too short, and which was not at all becoming to his rather well fed tummy and the solidly rounded beginnings of his legs; but tastes vary. The checkered woolen plaid on his knees unfolded to the floor, though the room was warm.
"Are you sick or something?" Pyotr Stepanovich remarked.
"No, not sick, but afraid of becoming sick in this climate," the writer replied in his sharp voice, though with a pleasantly aristocratic lisp, lovingly scanning each word. "I expected you yesterday."
"But why? I didn't promise."
"No, but you do have my manuscript. Have you... read it?"
"Manuscript? What manuscript?"
Karmazinov was terribly surprised.
"But, anyhow, you did bring it with you?" he suddenly grew so alarmed that he even left off eating and looked at Pyotr Stepanovich with frightened eyes.
"Ah, this Bonjour you mean ..."
"Merci.”
"Well, all right. I completely forgot, and I haven't read it, I have no time. I don't know, really, it's not in my pockets... must be on my desk. Don't worry, it'll turn up."