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?”