Complete works of fyodor.., p.396
Complete Works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky, page 396
“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 some one else here . . . and Shatov perhaps and some one else too — well, that’s the lot of them . . . a wretched lot. . . . But I’ve come to intercede for Shatov. He must be saved, for this poem is his, his own composition, and it was through him it was published abroad; that I know or a fact, but of the manifestoes I really know nothing.”
“If the poem is his work, no doubt the manifestoes are too. But what data have you for suspecting Mr. Shatov?”
Pyotr Stepanovitch, with the air of a man driven out of all patience, pulled a pocket-book out of his pocket and took a note out of it.
“Here are the facts,” he cried, flinging it on the table.
Lembke unfolded it; it turned out to be a note written six months before from here to some address abroad. It was a brief note, only two lines:
“I can’t print ‘A Noble Personality’ here, and in fact I can do nothing; print it abroad.
Lembke looked intently at Pyotr Stepanovitch. Varvara Petrovna had been right in saying that he had at times the expression of a sheep.
“You see, it’s like this,” Pyotr Stepanovitch burst out. “He wrote this poem here six months ago, but he couldn’t get it printed here, in a secret printing press, and so he asks to have it printed abroad. . . . That seems clear.”
“Yes, that’s clear, but to whom did he write? That’s not clear yet,” Lembke observed with the most subtle irony.
“Why, Kirillov, of course; the letter was written to Kirillov abroad. . . . Surely you knew that? What’s so annoying is that perhaps you are only putting it on before me, and most likely you knew all about this poem and everything long ago! How did it come to be on your table? It found its way there somehow! Why are you torturing me, if so?”
He feverishly mopped his forehead with his handkerchief.
“I know something, perhaps.” Lembke parried dexterously. “But who is this Kirillov?”
“An engineer who has lately come to the town. He was Stavrogin’s second, a maniac, a madman; your sub-lieutenant may really only be suffering from temporary delirium, but Kirillov is a thoroughgoing madman — thoroughgoing, that I guarantee. Ah, Audrey Antonovitch, if the government only knew what sort of people these conspirators all are, they wouldn’t have the heart to lay a finger on them. Every single one of them ought to be in an asylum; I had a good look at them in Switzerland and at the congresses.”
“From which they direct the movement here?”
“Why, who directs it? Three men and a half. It makes one sick to think of them. And what sort of movement is there here? Manifestoes! And what recruits have they made? Sub-lieutenants in brain fever and two or three students! You are a sensible man: answer this question. Why don’t people of consequence join their ranks? Why are they all students and half-baked boys of twenty-two? And not many of those. I dare say there are thousands of bloodhounds on their track, but have they tracked out many of them I Seven! I tell you it makes one sick.”
Lembke listened with attention but with an expression that seemed to say, “You don’t feed nightingales on fairy-tales.”
“Excuse me, though. You asserted that the letter was sent abroad, but there’s no address on it; how do you come to know that it was addressed to Mr. Kirillov and abroad too and . . . and . . . that it really was written by Mr. Shatov?”
“Why, fetch some specimen of Shatov’s writing and compare it. You must have some signature of his in your office. As for its being addressed to Kirillov, it was Kirillov himself showed it me at the time.”
“Then you were yourself . . .”
“Of course I was, myself. They showed me lots of things out there. And as for this poem, they say it was written by Herzen to Shatov when he was still wandering abroad, in memory of their meeting, so they say, by way of praise and recommendation — damn it all ... and Shatov circulates it among the young people as much as to say, ‘This was Herzen’s opinion of me.’
“Ha ha!” cried Lembke, feeling he had got to the bottom of it at last. “That’s just what I was wondering: one can understand the manifesto, but what’s the object of the poem?”
“Of course you’d see it. Goodness knows why I’ve been babbling to you. Listen. Spare Shatov for me and the rest may go to the devil — even Kirillov, who is in hiding now, shut up in Filipov’s house, where Shatov lodges too. They don’t like me because I’ve turned round . . . but promise me Shator and I’ll dish them all up for you. I shall be of use, Andrey Antonovitch! I reckon nine or ten men make up the whole wretched lot. I am keeping an eye on them myself, on my. own account. We know of three already: Shatov, Kirillov, and that sub-lieutenant. The others I am only watching carefully . . . though I am pretty sharp-sighted too. It’s the same over again as it was in the X province: two students, a schoolboy, two noblemen of twenty, a teacher, and a half-pay major of sixty, crazy with drink, have been caught with manifestoes; that was all — you can take my word for it, that was all; it was quite a surprise that that was all. But I must have six days. I have reckoned it out — six days, not less. If you want to arrive at any result, don’t disturb them for six days and I can kill all the birds with one stone for you; but if you flutter them before, the birds will fly away. But spare me Shatov. I speak for Shatov. . . . The best plan would be to fetch him here secretly, in a friendly way, to your study and question him without disguising the facts. ... I have no doubt he’ll throw himself at your feet and burst into tears! He is a highly strung and unfortunate fellow; his wife is carrying on with Stavrogin. Be kind to him and he will tell you everything, but I must have six days. . . . And, above all, above all, not a word to Yulia Mihailovna. It’s a secret. May it be a secret?”
“What?” cried Lembke, opening wide his eyes. “Do you mean to say you said nothing of this to Yulia Mihailovna?”
“To her? Heaven forbid! Ech, Andrey Antonovitch! You see, I value her friendship and I have the highest respect for her . . . and all the rest of it ... but I couldn’t make such a blunder. I don’t contradict her, for, as you know yourself, it’s dangerous to contradict her. I may have dropped a word to her, for I know she likes that, but to suppose that I mentioned names to her as I have to you or anything of that sort! My good sir! Why am I appealing to you? Because you are a man, anyway, a serious person with old-fashioned firmness and experience in the service. You’ve seen life. You must know by heart every detail of such affairs, I expect, from what you’ve seen in Petersburg. But if I were to mention those two names, for instance, to her, she’d stir up such a hubbub. . . . You know, she would like to astonish Petersburg. No, she’s too hot-headed, she really is.”
“Yes, she has something of that owgrwe,” Andrey Antonovitch muttered with some satisfaction, though at the same time he resented this unmannerly fellow’s daring to express himself rather freely about Yulia Mihailovna. But Pyotr Stepanovitch probably imagined that he had not gone far enough and that he must exert himself further to flatter Lembke and make a complete conquest of him.
“Fougue is just it,” he assented. “She may be a woman of genius, a literary woman, but she would scare our sparrows. She wouldn’t be able to keep quiet for six hours, let alone six days. Ech, Andrey Antonovitch, don’t attempt to tie a woman down for six days! You do admit that I have some experience — in this sort of thing, I mean; I know something about it, and you know that I may very well know something about it. I am not asking for six days for fun but with an object.”
“I have heard . . .” (Lembke hesitated to utter his thought) “I have heard that on your return from abroad you made some expression . . . as it were of repentance, in the proper quarter?”
“Well, that’s as it may be.”
“And, of course, I don’t want to go into it. ... But it has seemed to me all along that you’ve talked in quite a different style — about the Christian faith, for instance, about social institutions, about the government even. . .”
“I’ve said lots of things, no doubt, I am saying them still; but such ideas mustn’t be applied as those fools do it, that’s the point. What’s the good of biting his superior’s shoulder! You agreed with me yourself, only you said it was premature.”
“I didn’t mean that when I agreed and said it was premature.”
“You weigh every word you utter, though. He he! You are a careful man!” Pyotr Stepanovitch observed gaily all of a sudden. “Listen, old friend. I had to get to know you; that’s why I talked in my own style. You are not the only one I get to know like that. Maybe I needed to find out your character.”
