"Cher,” he pronounced, in a voice in which some strained string vibrated. "If all of them here, in the square, in front of our eyes, are ordering people around so unceremoniously, what then are we to expect, say, from this one ... if he should happen to act independently."
And, trembling with indignation and with a boundless wish for defiance, he transferred his threatening, exposing finger to Filibusterov, who was standing two steps away goggling his eyes at us.
"This one!" he exclaimed, and everything went dark before his eyes. "Which this one? And who are you?" he stepped closer, clenching his fists. "Who are you?" he bellowed furiously, morbidly, and desperately (I will note that he knew Stepan Trofimovich's face perfectly well). Another moment and he would surely have grabbed him by the scruff of the neck; but, fortunately, Lembke turned his head at the shout. Perplexed, he nevertheless looked intently at Stepan Trofimovich, as if trying to figure something out, and suddenly waved his hand impatiently. Filibusterov was cut short. I dragged Stepan Trofimovich out of the crowd. It may be, however, that by then he himself wished to retreat.
"Home, home," I insisted, "if we weren't beaten, it's certainly thanks to Lembke."
"Go, my friend, I am to blame for subjecting you. You have a future and a career of some sort, while I—mon heure a sonné. "[cxxxviii]
He firmly mounted the steps to the governor's house. The doorkeeper knew me; I announced that we had both come to see Yulia Mikhailovna. In the reception room we sat down and began to wait. I did not want to abandon my friend, but I found it unnecessary to say anything more to him. He had the look of a man who has doomed himself to something like a certain death for the fatherland. We seated ourselves not next to each other but in different corners—I nearer the entrance, he on the far side opposite, his head pensively inclined, leaning lightly with both hands on his cane. He held his wide-brimmed hat in his left hand. We sat like that for about ten minutes.
II
Lembke suddenly came in with quick steps, accompanied by the police chief, glanced at us distractedly and, paying no attention, turned right to go to his study, but Stepan Trofimovich stood in front of him and blocked his way. The tall figure of Stepan Trofimovich, quite unlike any other, produced its impression; Lembke stopped.
"Who is this?" he muttered in perplexity, as if asking the police chief, not turning his head towards him in the least, however, but continuing to examine Stepan Trofimovich.
"Retired collegiate assessor Stepan Trofimovich Verkhovensky, Your Excellency," Stepan Trofimovich replied, augustly inclining his head. His Excellency continued to peer at him, though with a quite dumb look.
"What about?" And with the laconism of authority he squeamishly and impatiently turned his ear to Stepan Trofimovich, taking him finally for an ordinary petitioner with some written request.
"I was subjected today to a house search by an official acting on Your Excellency's behalf; therefore I wish..."
"Name? Name?" Lembke asked impatiently, as if suddenly realizing something. Stepan Trofimovich repeated his name still more augustly.
"Ahh! It's... it's that hotbed... My dear sir, you have presented yourself from such an angle... You're a professor? A professor?"
"I once had the honor of delivering several lectures to the youth of ——--- University."
"Yo-o-outh!" Lembke seemed to jump, though I wager he still had little understanding of what it was about, and even, perhaps, of whom he was talking with. "That, my very dear sir, I will not allow," he suddenly became terribly angry. "I do not allow youth. It's all these tracts. It's a swoop upon society, my dear sir, a seafaring swoop, filibusterism... What is your request, if you please?"
"On the contrary, your wife has requested of me that I read tomorrow at her fête. I myself have no requests, but have come seeking my rights ..."
"At the fête? There will be no fête. I will not allow your fête, sir! Lectures? Lectures?" he cried furiously.
"I wish very much that you would speak more politely with me, Your Excellency, and not stamp your feet or shout at me as at a boy."
"You understand, perhaps, with whom you are talking?" Lembke flushed.
"Perfectly well, Your Excellency."
"I shield society with myself, while you destroy it. Destroy it! You ... I remember about you, however: was it you who were tutor in the house of General Stavrogin's widow?"
"Yes, I was ... tutor ... in the house of General Stavrogin's widow."
"And in the course of twenty years you have been a hotbed of all that has now accumulated ... all the fruit ... I believe I saw you in the square just now. Beware, however, my dear sir, beware: the direction of your thinking is known. You may be sure I have it in mind. Your lectures, my dear sir, I cannot allow, I cannot, sir. Address no such requests to me."
He again made as if to pass by.
"I repeat, you are mistaken, Your Excellency: it is your wife who has requested that I read—not a lecture, but something literary, at tomorrow's fête. But I myself decline to read now. My humble request is that you explain to me, if possible, how, why, and wherefore I was subjected to today's search? Some books, papers, private letters quite dear to me, were taken from me and carted through town in a wheelbarrow..."
"Who did the search?" Lembke fluttered up, coming fully to his senses, and suddenly blushed all over. He turned quickly to the police chief. At that same moment the stooping, long, gawky figure of Blum appeared in the doorway.
"This very same official," Stepan Trofimovich pointed to him. Blum stepped forward with a guilty but by no means capitulating look.
"Vous ne faites que des bêtises,"[cxxxix] Lembke hurled at him with vexation and spite, and was suddenly transformed, as it were, and all at once regained his consciousness. "Excuse me..." he babbled in extreme confusion and blushing for all he was worth, "this was all. . . this was probably all just simply a blunder, a misunderstanding... just simply a misunderstanding."
"Your Excellency," Stepan Trofimovich observed, "in my youth I witnessed a certain characteristic incident. Once, in a theater, in the corridor, a man quickly went up to another and, in front of the whole public, gave him a resounding slap. Perceiving immediately that the victim was not at all the person for whom the slap was intended, but someone completely different who merely resembled him slightly, the man said angrily and hurriedly, like one who cannot waste precious time, exactly what Your Excellency just said: 'I made a mistake... excuse me, it was a misunderstanding, nothing but a misunderstanding.' And when the offended man nevertheless went on shouting and feeling offended, he observed to him in extreme vexation: 'But I tell you it was a misunderstanding, why are you still shouting!’“