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.

"For whom do you make this request, and what does it all signify?" he inquired imposingly, trying to conceal his curiosity.

"It's... it's ... ah, the devil... Am I to blame for believing in you? Am I really to blame for considering you a most noble man and, above all, a sensible one... that is, capable of understanding ... ah, the devil..."

The poor fellow was apparently unable to control himself.

"Do finally understand," he went on, "do understand that by giving you his name, I'm really betraying him to you; I'm betraying him, right? Right?"

"But how am I to guess, however, if you can't bring yourself to say it?"

"That's just it, you always chop it down with that logic of yours, the devil ... so, the devil... this 'shining light,' this 'student'—it's Shatov ... so, there it is!"

"Shatov? That is, how is it Shatov?"

"Shatov, he's the 'student,' the one that's mentioned. He lives here, the former serf, well, the one who gave that slap."

"I know, I know!" Lembke narrowed his eyes. "But, excuse me, what in fact is he accused of, and, most chiefly, what are you interceding for?"

"I'm asking you to save him, do you understand! I've known him since eight years ago, you might say we used to be friends," Pyotr Stepanovich was turning himself inside out. "Well, I really don't owe you any reports on my former life," he waved his hand. "It's all insignificant, all just three men and a half, and with the ones abroad it wouldn't even make ten, and the main thing is that I was counting on your humaneness, your intelligence. You'll understand and you yourself will show the matter in the right way, not as God knows what, but as the foolish dream of a madcap... from misfortunes, mind you, from long misfortunes, and not as devil knows what sort of unprecedented state conspiracy! ..."

He was almost breathless.

"Hm. I see he's to blame for the tracts with the axe," Lembke concluded almost majestically, "but, excuse me, if he's alone, how could he have spread them both here and in other districts, and even in Kh—— province, and ... and, finally, the main thing is— Where'd he get them?"

"But I'm telling you there are apparently five of them in all, or maybe ten, how should I know?"

"You don't know?"

"But how should I know, devil take it?"

"You did know, however, that Shatov was one of the accomplices?"

"Ehh!" Pyotr Stepanovich waved his arm, as if warding off the overwhelming perspicacity of the inquirer. "Well, listen, I'll tell you the whole truth: I know nothing about the tracts, I mean nothing whatsoever, devil take it, do you understand what nothing means? ... Well, of course, that sub-lieutenant, and someone else besides, and someone else here... well, and maybe Shatov, well, and someone else besides, well, that's all, trash and measliness... but I came to plead for Shatov, he must be saved, because this poem is his, he wrote it, and it was published abroad through him; that much I know for sure, but I know nothing whatsoever about the tracts."

"If the verses are his, then most likely the tracts are, too. On what grounds, however, do you suspect Mr. Shatov?"

Pyotr Stepanovich, with the air of a man who has finally lost all patience, snatched his wallet from his pocket, and from it took a note.

"Here are the grounds!" he cried, throwing it on the desk. Lembke unfolded it; the note, as it turned out, had been written about half a year before, from here to somewhere abroad; it was a short note, a couple of words:

Am unable to print "The Shining Light" here; that or anything else; print it abroad.

IV: Shatov

Lembke stared fixedly at Pyotr Stepanovich. Varvara Petrovna correctly referred to his having something of a sheep's gaze, especially at times.

"I mean, this is what it is," Pyotr Stepanovich lurched ahead. "That he wrote these verses here, half a year ago, but couldn't print them here, well, on some secret press—and so he asks for them to be printed abroad... that seems clear?"

"Yes, it's clear, sir, but whom is he asking?—that still isn't clear," Lembke remarked, with the most cunning irony.