It was settled, however, that the relationship should be concealed even more carefully than before if possible, and that even Blum's Christian name and patronymic should be changed, because he too was for some reason called Andrey Antonovitch.
Blum knew no one in the town except the German chemist, had not called on anyone, and led, as he always did, a lonely and niggardly existence.
He had long been aware of Andrey Antonovitch's literary peccadilloes.
He was generally summoned to listen to secret tete-a-tete readings of his novel; he would sit like a post for six hours at a stretch, perspiring and straining his utmost to keep awake and smile. On reaching home he would groan with his long-legged and lanky wife over their benefactor's unhappy weakness for Russian literature.
Andrey Antonovitch looked with anguish at Blum.
"I beg you to leave me alone, Blum," he began with agitated haste, obviously anxious to avoid any renewal of the previous conversation which had been interrupted by Pyotr Stepanovitch.
"And yet this may be arranged in the most delicate way and with no publicity; you have full power." Blum respectfully but obstinately insisted on some point, stooping forward and coming nearer and nearer by small steps to Andrey Antonovitch.
"Blum, you are so devoted to me and so anxious to serve me that I am always in a panic when I look at you."
"You always say witty things, and sleep in peace satisfied with what you've said, but that's how you damage yourself."
"Blum, I have just convinced myself that it's quite a mistake, quite a mistake."
"Not from the words of that false, vicious young man whom you suspect yourself?
He has won you by his flattering praise of your talent for literature."
"Blum, you understand nothing about it; your project is absurd, I tell you.
We shall find nothing and there will be a fearful upset and laughter too, and then Yulia Mihailovna..."
"We shall certainly find everything we are looking for." Blum advanced firmly towards him, laying his right hand on his heart. "We will make a search suddenly early in the morning, carefully showing every consideration for the person himself and strictly observing all the prescribed forms of the law.
The young men, Lyamshin and Telyatnikov, assert positively that we shall find all we want.
They were constant visitors there.
Nobody is favourably disposed to Mr. Verhovensky.
Madame Stavrogin has openly refused him her graces, and every honest man, if only there is such a one in this coarse town, is persuaded that a hotbed of infidelity and social doctrines has always been concealed there.
He keeps all the forbidden books, Ryliev's 'Reflections,' all Herzen's works.... I have an approximate catalogue, in case of need."
"Oh heavens! Every one has these books; how simple you are, my poor Blum."
"And many manifestoes," Blum went on without heeding the observation.
"We shall end by certainly coming upon traces of the real manifestoes here.
That young Verhovensky I feel very suspicious of."
"But you are mixing up the father and the son.
They are not on good terms. The son openly laughs at his father."
"That's only a mask."
"Blum, you've sworn to torment me!
Think! he is a conspicuous figure here, after all.
He's been a professor, he is a well-known man. He'll make such an uproar and there will be such gibes all over the town, and we shall make a mess of it all.... And only think how Yulia Mihailovna will take it."
Blum pressed forward and did not listen.
"He was only a lecturer, only a lecturer, and of a low rank when he retired." He smote himself on the chest. "He has no marks of distinction. He was discharged from the service on suspicion of plots against the government.
He has been under secret supervision, and undoubtedly still is so.
And in view of the disorders that have come to light now, you are undoubtedly bound in duty.
You are losing your chance of distinction by letting slip the real criminal."
"Yulia Mihailovna!
Get away, Blum," Von Lembke cried suddenly, hearing the voice of his spouse in the next room.
Blum started but did not give in.
"Allow me, allow me," he persisted, pressing both hands still more tightly on his chest.
"Get away!" hissed Andrey Antonovitch.
"Do what you like... afterwards. Oh, my God!"
The curtain was raised and Yulia Mihailovna made her appearance.
She stood still majestically at the sight of Blum, casting a haughty and offended glance at him, as though the very presence of this man was an affront to her.
Blum respectfully made her a deep bow without speaking and, doubled up with veneration, moved towards the door on tiptoe with his arms held a little away from him.
Either because he really took Andrey Antonovitch's last hysterical outbreak as a direct permission to act as he was asking, or whether he strained a point in this case for the direct advantage of his benefactor, because he was too confident that success would crown his efforts; anyway, as we shall see later on, this conversation of the governor with his subordinate led to a very surprising event which amused many people, became public property, moved Yulia Mihailovna to fierce anger, utterly disconcerting Andrey Antonovitch and reducing him at the crucial moment to a state of deplorable indecision.
V
It was a busy day for Pyotr Stepanovitch.
From Von Lembke he hastened to Bogoyavlensky Street, but as he went along Bykovy Street, past the house where Karmazinov was staying, he suddenly stopped, grinned, and went into the house.
The servant told him that he was expected, which interested him, as he had said nothing beforehand of his coming.
But the great writer really had been expecting him, not only that day but the day before and the day before that.