UNDER WESTERN EYES by JOSEPH CONRAD "I would take liberty from any hand as a hungry man would snatch a pieceof bread. " Miss HALDIN PART FIRST To begin with I wish to disclaim the possession of those high gifts ofimagination and expression which would have enabled my pen to createfor the reader the personality of the man who called himself, after theRussian custom, Cyril son of Isidor--Kirylo Sidorovitch--Razumov. If I have ever had these gifts in any sort of living form they have beensmothered out of existence a long time ago under a wilderness of words. Words, as is well known, are the great foes of reality. I have been formany years a teacher of languages. It is an occupation which at lengthbecomes fatal to whatever share of imagination, observation, and insightan ordinary person may be heir to. To a teacher of languages there comesa time when the world is but a place of many words and man appears amere talking animal not much more wonderful than a parrot. This being so, I could not have observed Mr. Razumov or guessed at hisreality by the force of insight, much less have imagined him as he was. Even to invent the mere bald facts of his life would have been utterlybeyond my powers. But I think that without this declaration thereaders of these pages will be able to detect in the story the marks ofdocumentary evidence. And that is perfectly correct. It is based ona document; all I have brought to it is my knowledge of the Russianlanguage, which is sufficient for what is attempted here. The document, of course, is something in the nature of a journal, a diary, yet notexactly that in its actual form. For instance, most of it was notwritten up from day to day, though all the entries are dated. Some ofthese entries cover months of time and extend over dozens of pages. Allthe earlier part is a retrospect, in a narrative form, relating to anevent which took place about a year before. I must mention that I have lived for a long time in Geneva. A wholequarter of that town, on account of many Russians residing there, is called La Petite Russie--Little Russia. I had a rather extensiveconnexion in Little Russia at that time. Yet I confess that I haveno comprehension of the Russian character. The illogicality of theirattitude, the arbitrariness of their conclusions, the frequency of theexceptional, should present no difficulty to a student of many grammars;but there must be something else in the way, some special humantrait--one of those subtle differences that are beyond the ken of mereprofessors. What must remain striking to a teacher of languages is theRussians' extraordinary love of words. They gather them up; they cherishthem, but they don't hoard them in their breasts; on the contrary, theyare always ready to pour them out by the hour or by the night with anenthusiasm, a sweeping abundance, with such an aptness of applicationsometimes that, as in the case of very accomplished parrots, one can'tdefend oneself from the suspicion that they really understand what theysay. There is a generosity in their ardour of speech which removes it asfar as possible from common loquacity; and it is ever too disconnectedto be classed as eloquence.... But I must apologize for thisdigression. It would be idle to inquire why Mr. Razumov has left this record behindhim. It is inconceivable that he should have wished any human eye to seeit. A mysterious impulse of human nature comes into play here. Puttingaside Samuel Pepys, who has forced in this way the door of immortality, innumerable people, criminals, saints, philosophers, young girls, statesmen, and simple imbeciles, have kept self-revealing records fromvanity no doubt, but also from other more inscrutable motives. Theremust be a wonderful soothing power in mere words since so many men haveused them for self-communion. Being myself a quiet individual I takeit that what all men are really after is some form or perhaps only someformula of peace. Certainly they are crying loud enough for it at thepresent day. What sort of peace Kirylo Sidorovitch Razumov expectedto find in the writing up of his record it passeth my understanding toguess. The fact remains that he has written it. Mr. Razumov was a tall, well-proportioned young man, quite unusuallydark for a Russian from the Central Provinces. His good looks would havebeen unquestionable if it had not been for a peculiar lack of finenessin the features. It was as if a face modelled vigorously in wax (withsome approach even to a classical correctness of type) had beenheld close to a fire till all sharpness of line had been lost inthe softening of the material. But even thus he was sufficientlygood-looking. His manner, too, was good. In discussion he was easilyswayed by argument and authority. With his younger compatriots he tookthe attitude of an inscrutable listener, a listener of the kind thathears you out intelligently and then--just changes the subject. This sort of trick, which may arise either from intellectualinsufficiency or from an imperfect trust in one's own convictions, procured for Mr. Razumov a reputation of profundity. Amongst a lot ofexuberant talkers, in the habit of exhausting themselves daily by ardentdiscussion, a comparatively taciturn personality is naturally creditedwith reserve power. By his comrades at the St. Petersburg University, Kirylo Sidorovitch Razumov, third year's student in philosophy, waslooked upon as a strong nature--an altogether trustworthy man. This, in a country where an opinion may be a legal crime visited by death orsometimes by a fate worse than mere death, meant that he was worthyof being trusted with forbidden opinions. He was liked also for hisamiability and for his quiet readiness to oblige his comrades even atthe cost of personal inconvenience. Mr. Razumov was supposed to be the son of an Archpriest and to beprotected by a distinguished nobleman--perhaps of his own distantprovince. But his outward appearance accorded badly with such humbleorigin. Such a descent was not credible. It was, indeed, suggested thatMr. Razumov was the son of an Archpriest's pretty daughter--which, ofcourse, would put a different complexion on the matter. This theory alsorendered intelligible the protection of the distinguished nobleman. Allthis, however, had never been investigated maliciously or otherwise. Noone knew or cared who the nobleman in question was. Razumov receiveda modest but very sufficient allowance from the hands of an obscureattorney, who seemed to act as his guardian in some measure. Now andthen he appeared at some professor's informal reception. Apart fromthat Razumov was not known to have any social relations in the town. He attended the obligatory lectures regularly and was considered by theauthorities as a very promising student. He worked at home in the mannerof a man who means to get on, but did not shut himself up severely forthat purpose. He was always accessible, and there was nothing secret orreserved in his life. I The origin of Mr. Razumov's record is connected with an eventcharacteristic of modern Russia in the actual fact: the assassinationof a prominent statesman--and still more characteristic of the moralcorruption of an oppressed society where the noblest aspirations ofhumanity, the desire of freedom, an ardent patriotism, the love ofjustice, the sense of pity, and even the fidelity of simple minds areprostituted to the lusts of hate and fear, the inseparable companions ofan uneasy despotism. The fact alluded to above is the successful attempt on the life of Mr. De P---, the President of the notorious Repressive Commission of someyears ago, the Minister of State invested with extraordinary powers. Thenewspapers made noise enough about that fanatical, narrow-chested figurein gold-laced uniform, with a face of crumpled parchment, insipid, bespectacled eyes, and the cross of the Order of St. Procopius hungunder the skinny throat. For a time, it may be remembered, not a monthpassed without his portrait appearing in some one of the illustratedpapers of Europe. He served the monarchy by imprisoning, exiling, orsending to the gallows men and women, young and old, with an equable, unwearied industry. In his mystic acceptance of the principle ofautocracy he was bent on extirpating from the land every vestige ofanything that resembled freedom in public institutions; and in hisruthless persecution of the rising generation he seemed to aim at thedestruction of the very hope of liberty itself. It is said that this execrated personality had not enough imaginationto be aware of the hate he inspired. It is hardly credible; but it is afact that he took very few precautions for his safety. In the preambleof a certain famous State paper he had declared once that "the thoughtof liberty has never existed in the Act of the Creator. From themultitude of men's counsel nothing could come but revolt and disorder;and revolt and disorder in a world created for obedience and stabilityis sin. It was not Reason but Authority which expressed the DivineIntention. God was the Autocrat of the Universe.... " It may be thatthe man who made this declaration believed that heaven itself was boundto protect him in his remorseless defence of Autocracy on this earth. No doubt the vigilance of the police saved him many times; but, as amatter of fact, when his appointed fate overtook him, the competentauthorities could not have given him any warning. They had no knowledgeof any conspiracy against the Minister's life, had no hint of any plotthrough their usual channels of information, had seen no signs, wereaware of no suspicious movements or dangerous persons. Mr. De P--- was being driven towards the railway station in a two-horseuncovered sleigh with footman and coachman on the box. Snow had beenfalling all night, making the roadway, uncleared as yet at this earlyhour, very heavy for the horses. It was still falling thickly. But thesleigh must have been observed and marked down. As it drew over to theleft before taking a turn, the footman noticed a peasant walkingslowly on the edge of the pavement with his hands in the pockets ofhis sheepskin coat and his shoulders hunched up to his ears under thefalling snow. On being overtaken this peasant suddenly faced about andswung his arm. In an instant there was a terrible shock, a detonationmuffled in the multitude of snowflakes; both horses lay dead and mangledon the ground and the coachman, with a shrill cry, had fallen off thebox mortally wounded. The footman (who survived) had no time to see theface of the man in the sheepskin coat. After throwing the bomb this lastgot away, but it is supposed that, seeing a lot of people surging up onall sides of him in the falling snow, and all running towards the sceneof the explosion, he thought it safer to turn back with them. In an incredibly short time an excited crowd assembled round the sledge. The Minister-President, getting out unhurt into the deep snow, stoodnear the groaning coachman and addressed the people repeatedly in hisweak, colourless voice: "I beg of you to keep off: For the love of God, I beg of you good people to keep off. " It was then that a tall young man who had remained standing perfectlystill within a carriage gateway, two houses lower down, stepped out intothe street and walking up rapidly flung another bomb over the heads ofthe crowd. It actually struck the Minister-President on the shoulderas he stooped over his dying servant, then falling between his feetexploded with a terrific concentrated violence, striking him dead to theground, finishing the wounded man and practically annihilating the emptysledge in the twinkling of an eye. With a yell of horror the crowd brokeup and fled in all directions, except for those who fell dead or dyingwhere they stood nearest to the Minister-President, and one or twoothers who did not fall till they had run a little way. The first explosion had brought together a crowd as if by enchantment, the second made as swiftly a solitude in the street for hundreds ofyards in each direction. Through the falling snow people looked fromafar at the small heap of dead bodies lying upon each other near thecarcases of the two horses. Nobody dared to approach till some Cossacksof a street-patrol galloped up and, dismounting, began to turn over thedead. Amongst the innocent victims of the second explosion laid out onthe pavement there was a body dressed in a peasant's sheepskin coat; butthe face was unrecognisable, there was absolutely nothing found in thepockets of its poor clothing, and it was the only one whose identity wasnever established. That day Mr. Razumov got up at his usual hour and spent the morningwithin the University buildings listening to the lectures and workingfor some time in the library. He heard the first vague rumour ofsomething in the way of bomb-throwing at the table of the students'ordinary, where he was accustomed to eat his two o'clock dinner. Butthis rumour was made up of mere whispers, and this was Russia, whereit was not always safe, for a student especially, to appear too muchinterested in certain kinds of whispers. Razumov was one of thosemen who, living in a period of mental and political unrest, keep aninstinctive hold on normal, practical, everyday life. He was awareof the emotional tension of his time; he even responded to it in anindefinite way. But his main concern was with his work, his studies, andwith his own future. Officially and in fact without a family (for the daughter of theArchpriest had long been dead), no home influences had shaped hisopinions or his feelings. He was as lonely in the world as a manswimming in the deep sea. The word Razumov was the mere label ofa solitary individuality. There were no Razumovs belonging to himanywhere. His closest parentage was defined in the statement that hewas a Russian. Whatever good he expected from life would be given to orwithheld from his hopes by that connexion alone. This immense parentagesuffered from the throes of internal dissensions, and he shrank mentallyfrom the fray as a good-natured man may shrink from taking definitesides in a violent family quarrel. Razumov, going home, reflected that having prepared all the matters ofthe forthcoming examination, he could now devote his time to the subjectof the prize essay. He hankered after the silver medal. The prize wasoffered by the Ministry of Education; the names of the competitors wouldbe submitted to the Minister himself. The mere fact of trying would beconsidered meritorious in the higher quarters; and the possessor of theprize would have a claim to an administrative appointment of the bettersort after he had taken his degree. The student Razumov in an access ofelation forgot the dangers menacing the stability of the institutionswhich give rewards and appointments. But remembering the medallist ofthe year before, Razumov, the young man of no parentage, was sobered. Heand some others happened to be assembled in their comrade's rooms at thevery time when that last received the official advice of his success. He was a quiet, unassuming young man: "Forgive me, " he had said with afaint apologetic smile and taking up his cap, "I am going out to orderup some wine. But I must first send a telegram to my folk at home. Isay! Won't the old people make it a festive time for the neighbours fortwenty miles around our place. " Razumov thought there was nothing of that sort for him in the world. Hissuccess would matter to no one. But he felt no bitterness againstthe nobleman his protector, who was not a provincial magnate as wasgenerally supposed. He was in fact nobody less than Prince K---, oncea great and splendid figure in the world and now, his day being over, a Senator and a gouty invalid, living in a still splendid but moredomestic manner. He had some young children and a wife as aristocraticand proud as himself. In all his life Razumov was allowed only once to come into personalcontact with the Prince. It had the air of a chance meeting in the little attorney's office. One day Razumov, coming in by appointment, found a stranger standingthere--a tall, aristocratic-looking Personage with silky, greysidewhiskers. The bald-headed, sly little lawyer-fellow called out, "Come in--come in, Mr. Razumov, " with a sort of ironic heartiness. Thenturning deferentially to the stranger with the grand air, "A wardof mine, your Excellency. One of the most promising students of hisfaculty in the St. Petersburg University. " To his intense surprise Razumov saw a white shapely hand extended tohim. He took it in great confusion (it was soft and passive) and heardat the same time a condescending murmur in which he caught only thewords "Satisfactory" and "Persevere. " But the most amazing thing of allwas to feel suddenly a distinct pressure of the white shapely handjust before it was withdrawn: a light pressure like a secret sign. Theemotion of it was terrible. Razumov's heart seemed to leap into histhroat. When he raised his eyes the aristocratic personage, motioningthe little lawyer aside, had opened the door and was going out. The attorney rummaged amongst the papers on his desk for a time. "Do youknow who that was?" he asked suddenly. Razumov, whose heart was thumping hard yet, shook his head in silence. "That was Prince K---. You wonder what he could be doing in the hole ofa poor legal rat like myself--eh? These awfully great people have theirsentimental curiosities like common sinners. But if I were you, KiryloSidorovitch, " he continued, leering and laying a peculiar emphasis onthe patronymic, "I wouldn't boast at large of the introduction. It wouldnot be prudent, Kirylo Sidorovitch. Oh dear no! It would be in factdangerous for your future. " The young man's ears burned like fire; his sight was dim. "That man!"Razumov was saying to himself. "He!" Henceforth it was by this monosyllable that Mr. Razumov got intothe habit of referring mentally to the stranger with grey silkyside-whiskers. From that time too, when walking in the more fashionablequarters, he noted with interest the magnificent horses and carriageswith Prince K---'s liveries on the box. Once he saw the Princess getout--she was shopping--followed by two girls, of which one was nearly ahead taller than the other. Their fair hair hung loose down their backsin the English style; they had merry eyes, their coats, muffs, andlittle fur caps were exactly alike, and their cheeks and noses weretinged a cheerful pink by the frost. They crossed the pavement in frontof him, and Razumov went on his way smiling shyly to himself. "His"daughters. They resembled "Him. " The young man felt a glow of warmfriendliness towards these girls who would never know of his existence. Presently they would marry Generals or Kammerherrs and have girls andboys of their own, who perhaps would be aware of him as a celebrated oldprofessor, decorated, possibly a Privy Councillor, one of the glories ofRussia--nothing more! But a celebrated professor was a somebody. Distinction would convert thelabel Razumov into an honoured name. There was nothing strange inthe student Razumov's wish for distinction. A man's real life is thataccorded to him in the thoughts of other men by reason of respect ornatural love. Returning home on the day of the attempt on Mr. De P---'slife Razumov resolved to have a good try for the silver medal. Climbing slowly the four flights of the dark, dirty staircase in thehouse where he had his lodgings, he felt confident of success. Thewinner's name would be published in the papers on New Year's Day. And atthe thought that "He" would most probably read it there, Razumov stoppedshort on the stairs for an instant, then went on smiling faintly at hisown emotion. "This is but a shadow, " he said to himself, "but the medalis a solid beginning. " With those ideas of industry in his head the warmth of his room wasagreeable and encouraging. "I shall put in four hours of good work, "he thought. But no sooner had he closed the door than he was horriblystartled. All black against the usual tall stove of white tiles gleamingin the dusk, stood a strange figure, wearing a skirted, close-fitting, brown cloth coat strapped round the waist, in long boots, and with alittle Astrakhan cap on its head. It loomed lithe and martial. Razumovwas utterly confounded. It was only when the figure advancing two pacesasked in an untroubled, grave voice if the outer door was closed that heregained his power of speech. "Haldin!... Victor Victorovitch!... Is that you?... Yes. Theouter door is shut all right. But this is indeed unexpected. " Victor Haldin, a student older than most of his contemporaries at theUniversity, was not one of the industrious set. He was hardly ever seenat lectures; the authorities had marked him as "restless" and "unsound"--very bad notes. But he had a great personal prestige with hiscomrades and influenced their thoughts. Razumov had never been intimatewith him. They had met from time to time at gatherings in otherstudents' houses. They had even had a discussion together--one of thosediscussions on first principles dear to the sanguine minds of youth. Razumov wished the man had chosen some other time to come for a chat. Hefelt in good trim to tackle the prize essay. But as Haldin could not beslightingly dismissed Razumov adopted the tone of hospitality, askinghim to sit down and smoke. "Kirylo Sidorovitch, " said the other, flinging off his cap, "we are notperhaps in exactly the same camp. Your judgment is more philosophical. You are a man of few words, but I haven't met anybody who dared todoubt the generosity of your sentiments. There is a solidity about yourcharacter which cannot exist without courage. " Razumov felt flattered and began to murmur shyly something about beingvery glad of his good opinion, when Haldin raised his hand. "That is what I was saying to myself, " he continued, "as I dodged in thewoodyard down by the river-side. 'He has a strong character this youngman, ' I said to myself. 'He does not throw his soul to the winds. ' Yourreserve has always fascinated me, Kirylo Sidorovitch. So I tried toremember your address. But look here--it was a piece of luck. Yourdvornik was away from the gate talking to a sleigh-driver on the otherside of the street. I met no one on the stairs, not a soul. As I came upto your floor I caught sight of your landlady coming out of your rooms. But she did not see me. She crossed the landing to her own side, andthen I slipped in. I have been here two hours expecting you to come inevery moment. " Razumov had listened in astonishment; but before he could open his mouthHaldin added, speaking deliberately, "It was I who removed de P--- thismorning. " Razumov kept down a cry of dismay. The sentiment of his lifebeing utterly ruined by this contact with such a crime expressed itselfquaintly by a sort of half-derisive mental exclamation, "There goes mysilver medal!" Haldin continued after waiting a while-- "You say nothing, Kirylo Sidorovitch! I understand your silence. To besure, I cannot expect you with your frigid English manner to embraceme. But never mind your manners. You have enough heart to have heard thesound of weeping and gnashing of teeth this man raised in the land. Thatwould be enough to get over any philosophical hopes. He was uprootingthe tender plant. He had to be stopped. He was a dangerous man--aconvinced man. Three more years of his work would have put us back fiftyyears into bondage--and look at all the lives wasted, at all the soulslost in that time. " His curt, self-confident voice suddenly lost its ring and it was in adull tone that he added, "Yes, brother, I have killed him. It's wearywork. " Razumov had sunk into a chair. Every moment he expected a crowd ofpolicemen to rush in. There must have been thousands of them out lookingfor that man walking up and down in his room. Haldin was talking againin a restrained, steady voice. Now and then he flourished an arm, slowly, without excitement. He told Razumov how he had brooded for a year; how he had not sleptproperly for weeks. He and "Another" had a warning of the Minister'smovements from "a certain person" late the evening before. He and that"Another" prepared their "engines" and resolved to have no sleep till"the deed" was done. They walked the streets under the falling snow withthe "engines" on them, exchanging not a word the livelong night. Whenthey happened to meet a police patrol they took each other by the armand pretended to be a couple of peasants on the spree. They reeled andtalked in drunken hoarse voices. Except for these strange outbreaks theykept silence, moving on ceaselessly. Their plans had been previouslyarranged. At daybreak they made their way to the spot which theyknew the sledge must pass. When it appeared in sight they exchanged amuttered good-bye and separated. The "other" remained at the corner, Haldin took up a position a little farther up the street.... After throwing his "engine" he ran off and in a moment was overtakenby the panic-struck people flying away from the spot after the secondexplosion. They were wild with terror. He was jostled once or twice. Heslowed down for the rush to pass him and then turned to the left into anarrow street. There he was alone. He marvelled at this immediate escape. The work was done. He couldhardly believe it. He fought with an almost irresistible longing to liedown on the pavement and sleep. But this sort of faintness--a drowsyfaintness--passed off quickly. He walked faster, making his way to oneof the poorer parts of the town in order to look up Ziemianitch. This Ziemianitch, Razumov understood, was a sort of town-peasant who hadgot on; owner of a small number of sledges and horses for hire. Haldinpaused in his narrative to exclaim-- "A bright spirit! A hardy soul! The best driver in St. Petersburg. Hehas a team of three horses there.... Ah! He's a fellow!" This man had declared himself willing to take out safely, at any time, one or two persons to the second or third railway station on one of thesouthern lines. But there had been no time to warn him the night before. His usual haunt seemed to be a low-class eating-house on the outskirtsof the town. When Haldin got there the man was not to be found. He wasnot expected to turn up again till the evening. Haldin wandered awayrestlessly. He saw the gate of a woodyard open and went in to get out of the windwhich swept the bleak broad thoroughfare. The great rectangular piles ofcut wood loaded with snow resembled the huts of a village. At first thewatchman who discovered him crouching amongst them talked in a friendlymanner. He was a dried-up old man wearing two ragged army coats one overthe other; his wizened little face, tied up under the jaw and over theears in a dirty red handkerchief, looked comical. Presently he grewsulky, and then all at once without rhyme or reason began to shoutfuriously. "Aren't you ever going to clear out of this, you loafer? We know allabout factory hands of your sort. A big, strong, young chap! You aren'teven drunk. What do you want here? You don't frighten us. Take yourselfand your ugly eyes away. " Haldin stopped before the sitting Razumov. His supple figure, withthe white forehead above which the fair hair stood straight up, had anaspect of lofty daring. "He did not like my eyes, " he said. "And so... Here I am. " Razumov made an effort to speak calmly. "But pardon me, Victor Victorovitch. We know each other so little.... I don't see why you.... " "Confidence, " said Haldin. This word sealed Razumov's lips as if a hand had been clapped on hismouth. His brain seethed with arguments. "And so--here you are, " he muttered through his teeth. The other did not detect the tone of anger. Never suspected it. "Yes. And nobody knows I am here. You are the last person that couldbe suspected--should I get caught. That's an advantage, you see. Andthen--speaking to a superior mind like yours I can well say all thetruth. It occurred to me that you--you have no one belonging to you--noties, no one to suffer for it if this came out by some means. Therehave been enough ruined Russian homes as it is. But I don't see how mypassage through your rooms can be ever known. If I should be got holdof, I'll know how to keep silent--no matter what they may be pleased todo to me, " he added grimly. He began to walk again while Razumov sat still appalled. "You thought that--" he faltered out almost sick with indignation. "Yes, Razumov. Yes, brother. Some day you shall help to build. Yousuppose that I am a terrorist, now--a destructor of what is, Butconsider that the true destroyers are they who destroy the spirit ofprogress and truth, not the avengers who merely kill the bodies of thepersecutors of human dignity. Men like me are necessary to make room forself-contained, thinking men like you. Well, we have made the sacrificeof our lives, but all the same I want to escape if it can be done. Itis not my life I want to save, but my power to do. I won't live idle. Ohno! Don't make any mistake, Razumov. Men like me are rare. And, besides, an example like this is more awful to oppressors when the perpetratorvanishes without a trace. They sit in their offices and palaces andquake. All I want you to do is to help me to vanish. No great matterthat. Only to go by and by and see Ziemianitch for me at that placewhere I went this morning. Just tell him, 'He whom you know wants awell-horsed sledge to pull up half an hour after midnight at the seventhlamp-post on the left counting from the upper end of Karabelnaya. Ifnobody gets in, the sledge is to run round a block or two, so as to comeback past the same spot in ten minutes' time. '" Razumov wondered why he had not cut short that talk and told this man togo away long before. Was it weakness or what? He concluded that it was a sound instinct. Haldin must have been seen. It was impossible that some people should not have noticed the face andappearance of the man who threw the second bomb. Haldin was a noticeableperson. The police in their thousands must have had his descriptionwithin the hour. With every moment the danger grew. Sent out to wanderin the streets he could not escape being caught in the end. The police would very soon find out all about him. They would set aboutdiscovering a conspiracy. Everybody Haldin had ever known would be inthe greatest danger. Unguarded expressions, little facts in themselvesinnocent would be counted for crimes. Razumov remembered certain wordshe said, the speeches he had listened to, the harmless gatherings hehad attended--it was almost impossible for a student to keep out of thatsort of thing, without becoming suspect to his comrades. Razumov saw himself shut up in a fortress, worried, badgered, perhapsill-used. He saw himself deported by an administrative order, his lifebroken, ruined, and robbed of all hope. He saw himself--at best--leadinga miserable existence under police supervision, in some small, farawayprovincial town, without friends to assist his necessities or eventake any steps to alleviate his lot--as others had. Others had fathers, mothers, brothers, relations, connexions, to move heaven and earth ontheir behalf--he had no one. The very officials that sentenced him somemorning would forget his existence before sunset. He saw his youth pass away from him in misery and half starvation--hisstrength give way, his mind become an abject thing. He saw himselfcreeping, broken down and shabby, about the streets--dying unattendedin some filthy hole of a room, or on the sordid bed of a Governmenthospital. He shuddered. Then the peace of bitter calmness came over him. It wasbest to keep this man out of the streets till he could be got rid ofwith some chance of escaping. That was the best that could be done. Razumov, of course, felt the safety of his lonely existence to bepermanently endangered. This evening's doings could turn up againsthim at any time as long as this man lived and the present institutionsendured. They appeared to him rational and indestructible at thatmoment. They had a force of harmony--in contrast with the horriblediscord of this man's presence. He hated the man. He said quietly-- "Yes, of course, I will go. 'You must give me precise directions, andfor the rest--depend on me. " "Ah! You are a fellow! Collected--cool as a cucumber. A regularEnglishman. Where did you get your soul from? There aren't many likeyou. Look here, brother! Men like me leave no posterity, but their soulsare not lost. No man's soul is ever lost. It works for itself--or elsewhere would be the sense of self-sacrifice, of martyrdom, of conviction, of faith--the labours of the soul? What will become of my soul when Idie in the way I must die--soon--very soon perhaps? It shall not perish. Don't make a mistake, Razumov. This is not murder--it is war, war. Myspirit shall go on warring in some Russian body till all falsehood isswept out of the world. The modern civilization is false, but a newrevelation shall come out of Russia. Ha! you say nothing. You are asceptic. I respect your philosophical scepticism, Razumov, but don'ttouch the soul. The Russian soul that lives in all of us. It has afuture. It has a mission, I tell you, or else why should I have beenmoved to do this--reckless--like a butcher--in the middle of all theseinnocent people--scattering death--I! I!... I wouldn't hurt a fly!" "Not so loud, " warned Razumov harshly. Haldin sat down abruptly, and leaning his head on his folded arms burstinto tears. He wept for a long time. The dusk had deepened in the room. Razumov, motionless in sombre wonder, listened to the sobs. The other raised his head, got up and with an effort mastered his voice. "Yes. Men like me leave no posterity, " he repeated in a subdued tone, "I have a sister though. She's with my old mother--I persuaded them togo abroad this year--thank God. Not a bad little girl my sister. She hasthe most trustful eyes of any human being that ever walked this earth. She will marry well, I hope. She may have children--sons perhaps. Lookat me. My father was a Government official in the provinces, He had alittle land too. A simple servant of God--a true Russian in his way. Hiswas the soul of obedience. But I am not like him. They say I resemblemy mother's eldest brother, an officer. They shot him in '28. UnderNicholas, you know. Haven't I told you that this is war, war.... ButGod of Justice! This is weary work. " Razumov, in his chair, leaning his head on his hand, spoke as if fromthe bottom of an abyss. "You believe in God, Haldin?" "There you go catching at words that are wrung from one. What does itmatter? What was it the Englishman said: 'There is a divine soul inthings... ' Devil take him--I don't remember now. But he spoke thetruth. When the day of you thinkers comes don't you forget what'sdivine in the Russian soul--and that's resignation. Respect that in yourintellectual restlessness and don't let your arrogant wisdom spoil itsmessage to the world. I am speaking to you now like a man with a roperound his neck. What do you imagine I am? A being in revolt? No. It'syou thinkers who are in everlasting revolt. I am one of the resigned. When the necessity of this heavy work came to me and I understood thatit had to be done--what did I do? Did I exult? Did I take pride inmy purpose? Did I try to weigh its worth and consequences? No! I wasresigned. I thought 'God's will be done. '" He threw himself full length on Razumov's bed and putting the backs ofhis hands over his eyes remained perfectly motionless and silent. Noteven the sound of his breathing could be heard. The dead stillnessor the room remained undisturbed till in the darkness Razumov saidgloomily-- "Haldin. " "Yes, " answered the other readily, quite invisible now on the bed andwithout the slightest stir. "Isn't it time for me to start?" "Yes, brother. " The other was heard, lying still in the darkness asthough he were talking in his sleep. "The time has come to put fate tothe test. " He paused, then gave a few lucid directions in the quiet impersonalvoice of a man in a trance. Razumov made ready without a word of answer. As he was leaving the room the voice on the bed said after him-- "Go with God, thou silent soul. " On the landing, moving softly, Razumov locked the door and put the keyin his pocket. II The words and events of that evening must have been graven as if witha steel tool on Mr. Razumov's brain since he was able to write hisrelation with such fullness and precision a good many months afterwards. The record of the thoughts which assailed him in the street is even moreminute and abundant. They seem to have rushed upon him with the greaterfreedom because his thinking powers were no longer crushed by Haldin'spresence--the appalling presence of a great crime and the stunning forceof a great fanaticism. On looking through the pages of Mr. Razumov'sdiary I own that a "rush of thoughts" is not an adequate image. The more adequate description would be a tumult of thoughts--thefaithful reflection of the state of his feelings. The thoughts inthemselves were not numerous--they were like the thoughts of most humanbeings, few and simple--but they cannot be reproduced here in alltheir exclamatory repetitions which went on in an endless and wearyturmoil--for the walk was long. If to the Western reader they appear shocking, inappropriate, or evenimproper, it must be remembered that as to the first this may be theeffect of my crude statement. For the rest I will only remark here thatthis is not a story of the West of Europe. Nations it may be have fashioned their Governments, but the Governmentshave paid them back in the same coin. It is unthinkable that any youngEnglishman should find himself in Razumov's situation. This being so itwould be a vain enterprise to imagine what he would think. The only safesurmise to make is that he would not think as Mr. Razumov thought atthis crisis of his fate. He would not have an hereditary and personalknowledge or the means by which historical autocracy represses ideas, guards its power, and defends its existence. By an act of mentalextravagance he might imagine himself arbitrarily thrown into prison, but it would never occur to him unless he were delirious (and perhapsnot even then) that he could be beaten with whips as a practical measureeither of investigation or of punishment. This is but a crude and obvious example of the different conditions ofWestern thought. I don't know that this danger occurred, specially, toMr. Razumov. No doubt it entered unconsciously into the general dreadand the general appallingness of this crisis. Razumov, as has been seen, was aware of more subtle ways in which an individual may be undone bythe proceedings of a despotic Government. A simple expulsion fromthe University (the very least that could happen to him), with animpossibility to continue his studies anywhere, was enough to ruinutterly a young man depending entirely upon the development of hisnatural abilities for his place in the world. He was a Russian: and forhim to be implicated meant simply sinking into the lowest social depthsamongst the hopeless and the destitute--the night birds of the city. The peculiar circumstances of Razumov's parentage, or rather of his lackof parentage, should be taken into the account of his thoughts. And heremembered them too. He had been lately reminded of them in a peculiarlyatrocious way by this fatal Haldin. "Because I haven't that, musteverything else be taken away from me?" he thought. He nerved himself for another effort to go on. Along the roadway sledgesglided phantom-like and jingling through a fluttering whiteness on theblack face of the night. "For it is a crime, " he was saying tohimself. "A murder is a murder. Though, of course, some sort of liberalinstitutions.... " A feeling of horrible sickness came over him. "I must be courageous, "he exhorted himself mentally. All his strength was suddenly gone asif taken out by a hand. Then by a mighty effort of will it came backbecause he was afraid of fainting in the street and being picked up bythe police with the key of his lodgings in his pocket. They would findHaldin there, and then, indeed, he would be undone. Strangely enough it was this fear which seems to have kept him up to theend. The passers-by were rare. They came upon him suddenly, looming upblack in the snowflakes close by, then vanishing all at once-withoutfootfalls. It was the quarter of the very poor. Razumov noticed an elderly womantied up in ragged shawls. Under the street lamp she seemed a beggar offduty. She walked leisurely in the blizzard as though she had no home tohurry to, she hugged under one arm a round loaf of black bread withan air of guarding a priceless booty: and Razumov averting his glanceenvied her the peace of her mind and the serenity of her fate. To one reading Mr. Razumov's narrative it is really a wonder how hemanaged to keep going as he did along one interminable street afteranother on pavements that were gradually becoming blocked with snow. It was the thought of Haldin locked up in his rooms and the desperatedesire to get rid of his presence which drove him forward. No rationaldetermination had any part in his exertions. Thus, when on arriving atthe low eating-house he heard that the man of horses, Ziemianitch, wasnot there, he could only stare stupidly. The waiter, a wild-haired youth in tarred boots and a pink shirt, exclaimed, uncovering his pale gums in a silly grin, that Ziemianitchhad got his skinful early in the afternoon and had gone away with abottle under each arm to keep it up amongst the horses--he supposed. The owner of the vile den, a bony short man in a dirty cloth caftancoming down to his heels, stood by, his hands tucked into his belt, andnodded confirmation. The reek of spirits, the greasy rancid steam of food got Razumov by thethroat. He struck a table with his clenched hand and shouted violently-- "You lie. " Bleary unwashed faces were turned to his direction. A mild-eyed raggedtramp drinking tea at the next table moved farther away. A murmur ofwonder arose with an undertone of uneasiness. A laugh was heard too, andan exclamation, "There! there!" jeeringly soothing. The waiter lookedall round and announced to the room-- "The gentleman won't believe that Ziemianitch is drunk. " From a distant corner a hoarse voice belonging to a horrible, nondescript, shaggy being with a black face like the muzzle of a beargrunted angrily-- "The cursed driver of thieves. What do we want with his gentlemen here?We are all honest folk in this place. " Razumov, biting his lip till blood came to keep himself from burstinginto imprecations, followed the owner of the den, who, whispering "Comealong, little father, " led him into a tiny hole of a place behindthe wooden counter, whence proceeded a sound of splashing. A wet andbedraggled creature, a sort of sexless and shivering scarecrow, washedglasses in there, bending over a wooden tub by the light of a tallowdip. "Yes, little father, " the man in the long caftan said plaintively. Hehad a brown, cunning little face, a thin greyish beard. Trying to lighta tin lantern he hugged it to his breast and talked garrulously thewhile. He would show Ziemianitch to the gentleman to prove there were no liestold. And he would show him drunk. His woman, it seems, ran away fromhim last night. "Such a hag she was! Thin! Pfui!" He spat. They werealways running away from that driver of the devil--and he sixty yearsold too; could never get used to it. But each heart knows sorrow afterits own kind and Ziemianitch was a born fool all his days. And then hewould fly to the bottle. "'Who could bear life in our land without thebottle?' he says. A proper Russian man--the little pig.... Be pleasedto follow me. " Razumov crossed a quadrangle of deep snow enclosed between high wallswith innumerable windows. Here and there a dim yellow light hung withinthe four-square mass of darkness. The house was an enormous slum, a hiveof human vermin, a monumental abode of misery towering on the verge ofstarvation and despair. In a corner the ground sloped sharply down, and Razumov followed thelight of the lantern through a small doorway into a long cavernous placelike a neglected subterranean byre. Deep within, three shaggy littlehorses tied up to rings hung their heads together, motionless andshadowy in the dim light of the lantern. It must have been the famousteam of Haldin's escape. Razumov peered fearfully into the gloom. Hisguide pawed in the straw with his foot. "Here he is. Ah! the little pigeon. A true Russian man. 'No heavy heartsfor me, ' he says. 'Bring out the bottle and take your ugly mug out of mysight. ' Ha! ha! ha! That's the fellow he is. " He held the lantern over a prone form of a man, apparently fully dressedfor outdoors. His head was lost in a pointed cloth hood. On the otherside of a heap of straw protruded a pair of feet in monstrous thickboots. "Always ready to drive, " commented the keeper of the eating-house. "Aproper Russian driver that. Saint or devil, night or day is all one toZiemianitch when his heart is free from sorrow. 'I don't ask who youare, but where you want to go, ' he says. He would drive Satan himself tohis own abode and come back chirruping to his horses. Many a one he hasdriven who is clanking his chains in the Nertchinsk mines by this time. " Razumov shuddered. "Call him, wake him up, " he faltered out. The other set down his light, stepped back and launched a kick at theprostrate sleeper. The man shook at the impact but did not move. At thethird kick he grunted but remained inert as before. The eating-house keeper desisted and fetched a deep sigh. "You see for yourself how it is. We have done what we can for you. " He picked up the lantern. The intense black spokes of shadow swungabout in the circle of light. A terrible fury--the blind rage ofself-preservation--possessed Razumov. "Ah! The vile beast, " he bellowed out in an unearthly tone which madethe lantern jump and tremble! "I shall wake you! Give me... Giveme... " He looked round wildly, seized the handle of a stablefork and rushingforward struck at the prostrate body with inarticulate cries. After atime his cries ceased, and the rain of blows fell in the stillness andshadows of the cellar-like stable. Razumov belaboured Ziemianitch withan insatiable fury, in great volleys of sounding thwacks. Except for theviolent movements of Razumov nothing stirred, neither the beaten mannor the spoke-like shadows on the walls. And only the sound of blows washeard. It was a weird scene. Suddenly there was a sharp crack. The stick broke and half of it flewfar away into the gloom beyond the light. At the same time Ziemianitchsat up. At this Razumov became as motionless as the man with thelantern--only his breast heaved for air as if ready to burst. Some dull sensation of pain must have penetrated at last the consolingnight of drunkenness enwrapping the "bright Russian soul" of Haldin'senthusiastic praise. But Ziemianitch evidently saw nothing. His eyeballsblinked all white in the light once, twice--then the gleam went out. For a moment he sat in the straw with closed eyes with a strange air ofweary meditation, then fell over slowly on his side without making theslightest sound. Only the straw rustled a little. Razumov stared wildly, fighting for his breath. After a second or two he heard a light snore. He flung from him the piece of stick remaining in his grasp, and wentoff with great hasty strides without looking back once. After going heedlessly for some fifty yards along the street he walkedinto a snowdrift and was up to his knees before he stopped. This recalled him to himself; and glancing about he discovered he hadbeen going in the wrong direction. He retraced his steps, but now at amore moderate pace. When passing before the house he had just left heflourished his fist at the sombre refuge of misery and crime rearing itssinister bulk on the white ground. It had an air of brooding. He let hisarm fall by his side--discouraged. Ziemianitch's passionate surrender to sorrow and consolation had baffledhim. That was the people. A true Russian man! Razumov was glad he hadbeaten that brute--the "bright soul" of the other. Here they were: thepeople and the enthusiast. Between the two he was done for. Between the drunkenness of the peasantincapable of action and the dream-intoxication of the idealist incapableof perceiving the reason of things, and the true character of men. Itwas a sort of terrible childishness. But children had their masters. "Ah! the stick, the stick, the stern hand, " thought Razumov, longing forpower to hurt and destroy. He was glad he had thrashed that brute. The physical exertion had lefthis body in a comfortable glow. His mental agitation too was clarifiedas if all the feverishness had gone out of him in a fit of outwardviolence. Together with the persisting sense of terrible danger he wasconscious now of a tranquil, unquenchable hate. He walked slower and slower. And indeed, considering the guest he hadin his rooms, it was no wonder he lingered on the way. It was likeharbouring a pestilential disease that would not perhaps take your life, but would take from you all that made life worth living--a subtle pestthat would convert earth into a hell. What was he doing now? Lying on the bed as if dead, with the back of hishands over his eyes? Razumov had a morbidly vivid vision of Haldin onhis bed--the white pillow hollowed by the head, the legs in long boots, the upturned feet. And in his abhorrence he said to himself, "I'll killhim when I get home. " But he knew very well that that was of no use. The corpse hanging round his neck would be nearly as fatal as the livingman. Nothing short of complete annihilation would do. And that wasimpossible. What then? Must one kill oneself to escape this visitation? Razumov's despair was too profoundly tinged with hate to accept thatissue. And yet it was despair--nothing less--at the thought of having to livewith Haldin for an indefinite number of days in mortal alarm at everysound. But perhaps when he heard that this "bright soul" of Ziemianitchsuffered from a drunken eclipse the fellow would take his infernalresignation somewhere else. And that was not likely on the face of it. Razumov thought: "I am being crushed--and I can't even run away. "Other men had somewhere a corner of the earth--some little house inthe provinces where they had a right to take their troubles. A materialrefuge. He had nothing. He had not even a moral refuge--the refuge ofconfidence. To whom could he go with this tale--in all this great, greatland? Razumov stamped his foot--and under the soft carpet of snow felt thehard ground of Russia, inanimate, cold, inert, like a sullen and tragicmother hiding her face under a winding-sheet--his native soil!--his veryown--without a fireside, without a heart! He cast his eyes upwards and stood amazed. The snow had ceased to fall, and now, as if by a miracle, he saw above his head the clear black skyof the northern winter, decorated with the sumptuous fires of the stars. It was a canopy fit for the resplendent purity of the snows. Razumov received an almost physical impression of endless space and ofcountless millions. He responded to it with the readiness of a Russian who is born to aninheritance of space and numbers. Under the sumptuous immensity of thesky, the snow covered the endless forests, the frozen rivers, the plainsof an immense country, obliterating the landmarks, the accidents ofthe ground, levelling everything under its uniform whiteness, like amonstrous blank page awaiting the record of an inconceivable history. It covered the passive land with its lives of countless people likeZiemianitch and its handful of agitators like this Haldin--murderingfoolishly. It was a sort of sacred inertia. Razumov felt a respect for it. Avoice seemed to cry within him, "Don't touch it. " It was a guarantee ofduration, of safety, while the travail of maturing destiny went on--awork not of revolutions with their passionate levity of action and theirshifting impulses--but of peace. What it needed was not the conflictingaspirations of a people, but a will strong and one: it wanted not thebabble of many voices, but a man--strong and one! Razumov stood on the point of conversion. He was fascinated by itsapproach, by its overpowering logic. For a train of thought is neverfalse. The falsehood lies deep in the necessities of existence, insecret fears and half-formed ambitions, in the secret confidencecombined with a secret mistrust of ourselves, in the love of hope andthe dread of uncertain days. In Russia, the land of spectral ideas and disembodied aspirations, manybrave minds have turned away at last from the vain and endless conflictto the one great historical fact of the land. They turned to autocracyfor the peace of their patriotic conscience as a weary unbeliever, touched by grace, turns to the faith of his fathers for the blessingof spiritual rest. Like other Russians before him, Razumov, in conflictwith himself, felt the touch of grace upon his forehead. "Haldin means disruption, " he thought to himself, beginning to walkagain. "What is he with his indignation, with his talk of bondage--withhis talk of God's justice? All that means disruption. Better thatthousands should suffer than that a people should become a disintegratedmass, helpless like dust in the wind. Obscurantism is better than thelight of incendiary torches. The seed germinates in the night. Out ofthe dark soil springs the perfect plant. But a volcanic eruptionis sterile, the ruin of the fertile ground. And am I, who love mycountry--who have nothing but that to love and put my faith in--am Ito have my future, perhaps my usefulness, ruined by this sanguinaryfanatic?" The grace entered into Razumov. He believed now in the man who wouldcome at the appointed time. What is a throne? A few pieces of wood upholstered in velvet. But athrone is a seat of power too. The form of government is the shape ofa tool--an instrument. But twenty thousand bladders inflated by thenoblest sentiments and jostling against each other in the air are amiserable incumbrance of space, holding no power, possessing no will, having nothing to give. He went on thus, heedless of the way, holding a discourse with himselfwith extraordinary abundance and facility. Generally his phrases cameto him slowly, after a conscious and painstaking wooing. Some superiorpower had inspired him with a flow of masterly argument as certainconverted sinners become overwhelmingly loquacious. He felt an austere exultation. "What are the luridly smoky lucubrations of that fellow to the cleargrasp of my intellect?" he thought. "Is not this my country? Have I notgot forty million brothers?" he asked himself, unanswerably victoriousin the silence of his breast. And the fearful thrashing he had giventhe inanimate Ziemianitch seemed to him a sign of intimate union, apathetically severe necessity of brotherly love. "No! If I must sufferlet me at least suffer for my convictions, not for a crime my reason--mycool superior reason--rejects. " He ceased to think for a moment. The silence in his breast was complete. But he felt a suspicious uneasiness, such as we may experience when weenter an unlighted strange place--the irrational feeling that somethingmay jump upon us in the dark--the absurd dread of the unseen. Of course he was far from being a moss-grown reactionary. Everything wasnot for the best. Despotic bureaucracy... Abuses... Corruption... And so on. Capable men were wanted. Enlightened intelligences. Devotedhearts. But absolute power should be preserved--the tool ready for theman--for the great autocrat of the future. Razumov believed in him. Thelogic of history made him unavoidable. The state of the people demandedhim, "What else?" he asked himself ardently, "could move all that massin one direction? Nothing could. Nothing but a single will. " He was persuaded that he was sacrificing his personal longings ofliberalism--rejecting the attractive error for the stern Russian truth. "That's patriotism, " he observed mentally, and added, "There's nostopping midway on that road, " and then remarked to himself, "I am not acoward. " And again there was a dead silence in Razumov's breast. He walked withlowered head, making room for no one. He walked slowly and his thoughtsreturning spoke within him with solemn slowness. "What is this Haldin? And what am I? Only two grains of sand. But agreat mountain is made up of just such insignificant grains. And thedeath of a man or of many men is an insignificant thing. Yet we combata contagious pestilence. Do I want his death? No! I would save him if Icould--but no one can do that--he is the withered member which must becut off. If I must perish through him, let me at least not perishwith him, and associated against my will with his sombre folly thatunderstands nothing either of men or things. Why should I leave a falsememory?" It passed through his mind that there was no one in the world whocared what sort of memory he left behind him. He exclaimed to himselfinstantly, "Perish vainly for a falsehood!... What a miserable fate!" He was now in a more animated part of the town. He did not remark thecrash of two colliding sledges close to the curb. The driver of onebellowed tearfully at his fellow-- "Oh, thou vile wretch!" This hoarse yell, let out nearly in his ear, disturbed Razumov. He shookhis head impatiently and went on looking straight before him. Suddenlyon the snow, stretched on his back right across his path, he saw Haldin, solid, distinct, real, with his inverted hands over his eyes, clad in abrown close-fitting coat and long boots. He was lying out of the way alittle, as though he had selected that place on purpose. The snow roundhim was untrodden. This hallucination had such a solidity of aspect that the first movementof Razumov was to reach for his pocket to assure himself that the key ofhis rooms was there. But he checked the impulse with a disdainful curveof his lips. He understood. His thought, concentrated intensely onthe figure left lying on his bed, had culminated in this extraordinaryillusion of the sight. Razumov tackled the phenomenon calmly. With astern face, without a check and gazing far beyond the vision, he walkedon, experiencing nothing but a slight tightening of the chest. Afterpassing he turned his head for a glance, and saw only the unbroken trackof his footsteps over the place where the breast of the phantom had beenlying. Razumov walked on and after a little time whispered his wonder tohimself. "Exactly as if alive! Seemed to breathe! And right in my way too! I havehad an extraordinary experience. " He made a few steps and muttered through his set teeth-- "I shall give him up. " Then for some twenty yards or more all was blank. He wrapped his cloakcloser round him. He pulled his cap well forward over his eyes. "Betray. A great word. What is betrayal? They talk of a man betrayinghis country, his friends, his sweetheart. There must be a moral bondfirst. All a man can betray is his conscience. And how is my conscienceengaged here; by what bond of common faith, of common conviction, amI obliged to let that fanatical idiot drag me down with him? On thecontrary--every obligation of true courage is the other way. " Razumov looked round from under his cap. "What can the prejudice of the world reproach me with? Have I provokedhis confidence? No! Have I by a single word, look, or gesture given himreason to suppose that I accepted his trust in me? No! It is true thatI consented to go and see his Ziemianitch. Well, I have been to see him. And I broke a stick on his back too--the brute. " Something seemed to turn over in his head bringing uppermost asingularly hard, clear facet of his brain. "It would be better, however, " he reflected with a quite differentmental accent, "to keep that circumstance altogether to myself. " He had passed beyond the turn leading to his lodgings, and had reacheda wide and fashionable street. Some shops were still open, and all therestaurants. Lights fell on the pavement where men in expensive furcoats, with here and there the elegant figure of a woman, walked with anair of leisure. Razumov looked at them with the contempt of an austerebeliever for the frivolous crowd. It was the world--those officers, dignitaries, men of fashion, officials, members of the Yacht Club. Theevent of the morning affected them all. What would they say if they knewwhat this student in a cloak was going to do? "Not one of them is capable of feeling and thinking as deeply as I can. How many of them could accomplish an act of conscience?" Razumov lingered in the well-lighted street. He was firmly decided. Indeed, it could hardly be called a decision. He had simply discoveredwhat he had meant to do all along. And yet he felt the need of someother mind's sanction. With something resembling anguish he said to himself-- "I want to be understood. " The universal aspiration with all itsprofound and melancholy meaning assailed heavily Razumov, who, amongsteighty millions of his kith and kin, had no heart to which he could openhimself. The attorney was not to be thought of. He despised the little agent ofchicane too much. One could not go and lay one's conscience before thepoliceman at the corner. Neither was Razumov anxious to go to the chiefof his district's police--a common-looking person whom he used to seesometimes in the street in a shabby uniform and with a smoulderingcigarette stuck to his lower lip. "He would begin by locking me up mostprobably. At any rate, he is certain to get excited and create an awfulcommotion, " thought Razumov practically. An act of conscience must be done with outward dignity. Razumov longed desperately for a word of advice, for moral support. Whoknows what true loneliness is--not the conventional word, but the nakedterror? To the lonely themselves it wears a mask. The most miserableoutcast hugs some memory or some illusion. Now and then a fatalconjunction of events may lift the veil for an instant. For an instantonly. No human being could bear a steady view of moral solitude withoutgoing mad. Razumov had reached that point of vision. To escape from it he embracedfor a whole minute the delirious purpose of rushing to his lodgingsand flinging himself on his knees by the side of the bed with the darkfigure stretched on it; to pour out a full confession in passionatewords that would stir the whole being of that man to its innermostdepths; that would end in embraces and tears; in an incrediblefellowship of souls--such as the world had never seen. It was sublime! Inwardly he wept and trembled already. But to the casual eyes that werecast upon him he was aware that he appeared as a tranquil student ina cloak, out for a leisurely stroll. He noted, too, the sidelong, brilliant glance of a pretty woman--with a delicate head, and coveredin the hairy skins of wild beasts down to her feet, like a frail andbeautiful savage--which rested for a moment with a sort of mockingtenderness on the deep abstraction of that good-looking young man. Suddenly Razumov stood still. The glimpse of a passing grey whisker, caught and lost in the same instant, had evoked the complete image ofPrince K---, the man who once had pressed his hand as no other man hadpressed it--a faint but lingering pressure like a secret sign, like ahalf-unwilling caress. And Razumov marvelled at himself. Why did he not think of him before! "A senator, a dignitary, a great personage, the very man--He!" A strange softening emotion came over Razumov--made his knees shake alittle. He repressed it with a new-born austerity. All that sentimentwas pernicious nonsense. He couldn't be quick enough; and when he gotinto a sledge he shouted to the driver--"to the K--- Palace. Geton--you! Fly!" The startled moujik, bearded up to the very whites ofhis eyes, answered obsequiously-- "I hear, your high Nobility. " It was lucky for Razumov that Prince K--- was not a man of timidcharacter. On the day of Mr. De P---'s murder an extreme alarm anddespondency prevailed in the high official spheres. Prince K---, sitting sadly alone in his study, was told by his alarmedservants that a mysterious young man had forced his way into the hall, refused to tell his name and the nature of his business, and would notmove from there till he had seen his Excellency in private. Instead oflocking himself up and telephoning for the police, as nine out of tenhigh personages would have done that evening, the Prince gave way tocuriosity and came quietly to the door of his study. In the hall, the front door standing wide open, he recognised at onceRazumov, pale as death, his eyes blazing, and surrounded by perplexedlackeys. The Prince was vexed beyond measure, and even indignant. But his humaneinstincts and a subtle sense of self-respect could not allow him tolet this young man be thrown out into the street by base menials. He retreated unseen into his room, and after a little rang his bell. Razumov heard in the hall an ominously raised harsh voice sayingsomewhere far away-- "Show the gentleman in here. " Razumov walked in without a tremor. He felt himself invulnerable--raisedfar above the shallowness of common judgment. Though he saw the Princelooking at him with black displeasure, the lucidity of his mind, ofwhich he was very conscious, gave him an extraordinary assurance. He wasnot asked to sit down. Half an hour later they appeared in the hall together. The lackeys stoodup, and the Prince, moving with difficulty on his gouty feet, was helpedinto his furs. The carriage had been ordered before. When the greatdouble door was flung open with a crash, Razumov, who had been standingsilent with a lost gaze but with every faculty intensely on the alert, heard the Prince's voice-- "Your arm, young man. " The mobile, superficial mind of the ex-Guards officer, man of showymissions, experienced in nothing but the arts of gallant intrigueand worldly success, had been equally impressed by the more obviousdifficulties of such a situation and by Razumov's quiet dignity instating them. He had said, "No. Upon the whole I can't condemn the step you venturedto take by coming to me with your story. It is not an affair for policeunderstrappers. The greatest importance is attached to.... Setyour mind at rest. I shall see you through this most extraordinary anddifficult situation. " Then the Prince rose to ring the bell, and Razumov, making a short bow, had said with deference-- "I have trusted my instinct. A young man having no claim upon anybodyin the world has in an hour of trial involving his deepest politicalconvictions turned to an illustrious Russian--that's all. " The Prince had exclaimed hastily-- "You have done well. " In the carriage--it was a small brougham on sleigh runners--Razumovbroke the silence in a voice that trembled slightly. "My gratitude surpasses the greatness of my presumption. " He gasped, feeling unexpectedly in the dark a momentary pressure on hisarm. "You have done well, " repeated the Prince. When the carriage stopped the Prince murmured to Razumov, who had neverventured a single question-- "The house of General T---. " In the middle of the snow-covered roadway blazed a great bonfire. Some Cossacks, the bridles of their horses over the arm, were warmingthemselves around. Two sentries stood at the door, several gendarmeslounged under the great carriage gateway, and on the first-floorlanding two orderlies rose and stood at attention. Razumov walked at thePrince's elbow. A surprising quantity of hot-house plants in pots cumbered the floor ofthe ante-room. Servants came forward. A young man in civilian clothesarrived hurriedly, was whispered to, bowed low, and exclaimingzealously, "Certainly--this minute, " fled within somewhere. The Princesigned to Razumov. They passed through a suite of reception-rooms all barely lit and oneof them prepared for dancing. The wife of the General had put offher party. An atmosphere of consternation pervaded the place. But theGeneral's own room, with heavy sombre hangings, two massive desks, anddeep armchairs, had all the lights turned on. The footman shut the doorbehind them and they waited. There was a coal fire in an English grate; Razumov had never before seensuch a fire; and the silence of the room was like the silence of thegrave; perfect, measureless, for even the clock on the mantelpiecemade no sound. Filling a corner, on a black pedestal, stood aquarter-life-size smooth-limbed bronze of an adolescent figure, running. The Prince observed in an undertone-- "Spontini's. 'Flight of Youth. ' Exquisite. " "Admirable, " assented Razumov faintly. They said nothing more after this, the Prince silent with his grand air, Razumov staring at the statue. He was worried by a sensation resemblingthe gnawing of hunger. He did not turn when he heard an inner door fly open, and a quickfootstep, muffled on the carpet. The Prince's voice immediately exclaimed, thick with excitement-- "We have got him--_ce miserable_. A worthy young man came to me--No!It's incredible.... " Razumov held his breath before the bronze as if expecting a crash. Behind his back a voice he had never heard before insisted politely-- "_Asseyez-vous donc_. " The Prince almost shrieked, "_Mais comprenez-vous, mon cher!L'assassin_! the murderer--we have got him.... " Razumov spun round. The General's smooth big cheeks rested on the stiffcollar of his uniform. He must have been already looking at Razumov, because that last saw the pale blue eyes fastened on him coldly. The Prince from a chair waved an impressive hand. "This is a most honourable young man whom Providence itself... Mr. Razumov. " The General acknowledged the introduction by frowning at Razumov, whodid not make the slightest movement. Sitting down before his desk the General listened with compressed lips. It was impossible to detect any sign of emotion on his face. Razumov watched the immobility of the fleshy profile. But it lasted onlya moment, till the Prince had finished; and when the General turned tothe providential young man, his florid complexion, the blue, unbelievingeyes and the bright white flash of an automatic smile had an air ofjovial, careless cruelty. He expressed no wonder at the extraordinarystory--no pleasure or excitement--no incredulity either. He betrayed nosentiment whatever. Only with a politeness almost deferential suggestedthat "the bird might have flown while Mr. --Mr. Razumov was running aboutthe streets. " Razumov advanced to the middle of the room and said, "The door is lockedand I have the key in my pocket. " His loathing for the man was intense. It had come upon him so unawaresthat he felt he had not kept it out of his voice. The General looked upat him thoughtfully, and Razumov grinned. All this went over the head of Prince K--- seated in a deep armchair, very tired and impatient. "A student called Haldin, " said the General thoughtfully. Razumov ceased to grin. "That is his name, " he said unnecessarily loud. "Victor VictorovitchHaldin--a student. " The General shifted his position a little. "How is he dressed? Would you have the goodness to tell me?" Razumov angrily described Haldin's clothing in a few jerky words. TheGeneral stared all the time, then addressing the Prince-- "We were not without some indications, " he said in French. "A good womanwho was in the street described to us somebody wearing a dress of thesort as the thrower of the second bomb. We have detained her at theSecretariat, and every one in a Tcherkess coat we could lay our handson has been brought to her to look at. She kept on crossing herselfand shaking her head at them. It was exasperating.... " He turned toRazumov, and in Russian, with friendly reproach-- "Take a chair, Mr. Razumov--do. Why are you standing?" Razumov sat down carelessly and looked at the General. "This goggle-eyed imbecile understands nothing, " he thought. The Prince began to speak loftily. "Mr. Razumov is a young man of conspicuous abilities. I have it at heartthat his future should not.... " "Certainly, " interrupted the General, with a movement of the hand. "Hashe any weapons on him, do you think, Mr. Razumov?" The General employed a gentle musical voice. Razumov answered withsuppressed irritation-- "No. But my razors are lying about--you understand. " The General lowered his head approvingly. "Precisely. " Then to the Prince, explaining courteously-- "We want that bird alive. It will be the devil if we can't make him singa little before we are done with him. " The grave-like silence of the room with its mute clock fell upon thepolite modulations of this terrible phrase. The Prince, hidden in thechair, made no sound. The General unexpectedly developed a thought. "Fidelity to menaced institutions on which depend the safety of athrone and of a people is no child's play. We know that, _mon Prince, _and--_tenez_--" he went on with a sort of flattering harshness, "Mr. Razumov here begins to understand that too. " His eyes which he turned upon Razumov seemed to be starting out of hishead. This grotesqueness of aspect no longer shocked Razumov. He saidwith gloomy conviction-- "Haldin will never speak. " "That remains to be seen, " muttered the General. "I am certain, " insisted Razumov. "A man like this never speaks.... Do you imagine that I am here from fear?" he added violently. He feltready to stand by his opinion of Haldin to the last extremity. "Certainly not, " protested the General, with great simplicity of tone. "And I don't mind telling you, Mr. Razumov, that if he had not comewith his tale to such a staunch and loyal Russian as you, he wouldhave disappeared like a stone in the water... Which would have had adetestable effect, " he added, with a bright, cruel smile under his stonystare. "So you see, there can be no suspicion of any fear here. " The Prince intervened, looking at Razumov round the back of thearmchair. "Nobody doubts the moral soundness of your action. Be at ease in thatrespect, pray. " He turned to the General uneasily. "That's why I am here. You may be surprised why I should.... " The General hastened to interrupt. "Not at all. Extremely natural. You saw the importance.... " "Yes, " broke in the Prince. "And I venture to ask insistently that mineand Mr. Razumov's intervention should not become public. He is a youngman of promise--of remarkable aptitudes. " "I haven't a doubt of it, " murmured the General. "He inspiresconfidence. " "All sorts of pernicious views are so widespread nowadays--they taintsuch unexpected quarters--that, monstrous as it seems, he might suffer... His studies... His... " The General, with his elbows on the desk, took his head between hishands. "Yes. Yes. I am thinking it out.... How long is it since you left himat your rooms, Mr. Razumov?" Razumov mentioned the hour which nearly corresponded with the time ofhis distracted flight from the big slum house. He had made up his mindto keep Ziemianitch out of the affair completely. To mention him at allwould mean imprisonment for the "bright soul, " perhaps cruel floggings, and in the end a journey to Siberia in chains. Razumov, who had beatenZiemianitch, felt for him now a vague, remorseful tenderness. The General, giving way for the first time to his secret sentiments, exclaimed contemptuously-- "And you say he came in to make you this confidence like this--fornothing--_a propos des bottes_. " Razumov felt danger in the air. The merciless suspicion of despotism hadspoken openly at last. Sudden fear sealed Razumov's lips. The silenceof the room resembled now the silence of a deep dungeon, where time doesnot count, and a suspect person is sometimes forgotten for ever. But thePrince came to the rescue. "Providence itself has led the wretch in a moment of mental aberrationto seek Mr. Razumov on the strength of some old, utterly misinterpretedexchange of ideas--some sort of idle speculative conversation--monthsago--I am told--and completely forgotten till now by Mr. Razumov. " "Mr. Razumov, " queried the General meditatively, after a short silence, "do you often indulge in speculative conversation?" "No, Excellency, " answered Razumov, coolly, in a sudden access ofself-confidence. "I am a man of deep convictions. Crude opinions arein the air. They are not always worth combating. But even the silentcontempt of a serious mind may be misinterpreted by headlong utopists. " The General stared from between his hands. Prince K--- murmured-- "A serious young man. _Un esprit superieur_. " "I see that, _mon cher Prince_, " said the General. "Mr. Razumov is quitesafe with me. I am interested in him. He has, it seems, the great anduseful quality of inspiring confidence. What I was wondering at is whythe other should mention anything at all--I mean even the bare factalone--if his object was only to obtain temporary shelter for a fewhours. For, after all, nothing was easier than to say nothing about itunless, indeed, he were trying, under a crazy misapprehension of yourtrue sentiments, to enlist your assistance--eh, Mr. Razumov?" It seemed to Razumov that the floor was moving slightly. This grotesqueman in a tight uniform was terrible. It was right that he should beterrible. "I can see what your Excellency has in your mind. But I can only answerthat I don't know why. " "I have nothing in my mind, " murmured the General, with gentle surprise. "I am his prey--his helpless prey, " thought Razumov. The fatigues andthe disgusts of that afternoon, the need to forget, the fear which hecould not keep off, reawakened his hate for Haldin. "Then I can't help your Excellency. I don't know what he meant. I onlyknow there was a moment when I wished to kill him. There was also amoment when I wished myself dead. I said nothing. I was overcome. Iprovoked no confidence--I asked for no explanations--" Razumov seemed beside himself; but his mind was lucid. It was really acalculated outburst. "It is rather a pity, " the General said, "that you did not. Don't youknow at all what he means to do?" Razumov calmed down and saw an openingthere. "He told me he was in hopes that a sledge would meet him about half anhour after midnight at the seventh lamp-post on the left from the upperend of Karabelnaya. At any rate, he meant to be there at that time. Hedid not even ask me for a change of clothes. " "_Ah voila_!" said the General, turning to Prince K with an air ofsatisfaction. "There is a way to keep your _protege_, Mr. Razumov, quiteclear of any connexion with the actual arrest. We shall be ready forthat gentleman in Karabelnaya. " The Prince expressed his gratitude. There was real emotion in his voice. Razumov, motionless, silent, sat staring at the carpet. The Generalturned to him. "Half an hour after midnight. Till then we have to depend on you, Mr. Razumov. You don't think he is likely to change his purpose?" "How can I tell?" said Razumov. "Those men are not of the sort that everchanges its purpose. " "What men do you mean?" "Fanatical lovers of liberty in general. Liberty with a capital L, Excellency. Liberty that means nothing precise. Liberty in whose namecrimes are committed. " The General murmured-- "I detest rebels of every kind. I can't help it. It's my nature!" He clenched a fist and shook it, drawing back his arm. "They shall bedestroyed, then. " "They have made a sacrifice of their lives beforehand, " said Razumovwith malicious pleasure and looking the General straight in the face. "If Haldin does change his purpose to-night, you may depend on it thatit will not be to save his life by flight in some other way. He wouldhave thought then of something else to attempt. But that is not likely. " The General repeated as if to himself, "They shall be destroyed. " Razumov assumed an impenetrable expression. The Prince exclaimed-- "What a terrible necessity!" The General's arm was lowered slowly. "One comfort there is. That brood leaves no posterity. I've always saidit, one effort, pitiless, persistent, steady--and we are done with themfor ever. " Razumov thought to himself that this man entrusted with so mucharbitrary power must have believed what he said or else he could nothave gone on bearing the responsibility. "I detest rebels. These subversive minds! These intellectual_debauches_! My existence has been built on fidelity. It's a feeling. To defend it I am ready to lay down my life--and even my honour--ifthat were needed. But pray tell me what honour can there be as againstrebels--against people that deny God Himself--perfect unbelievers!Brutes. It is horrible to think of. " During this tirade Razumov, facing the General, had nodded slightlytwice. Prince K---, standing on one side with his grand air, murmured, casting up his eyes-- "_Helas!_" Then lowering his glance and with great decision declared-- "This young man, General, is perfectly fit to apprehend the bearing ofyour memorable words. " The General's whole expression changed from dull resentment to perfecturbanity. "I would ask now, Mr. Razumov, " he said, "to return to his home. Notethat I don't ask Mr. Razumov whether he has justified his absence to hisguest. No doubt he did this sufficiently. But I don't ask. Mr. Razumovinspires confidence. It is a great gift. I only suggest that a moreprolonged absence might awaken the criminal's suspicions and induce himperhaps to change his plans. " He rose and with a scrupulous courtesy escorted his visitors to theante-room encumbered with flower-pots. Razumov parted with the Prince at the corner of a street. In thecarriage he had listened to speeches where natural sentiment struggledwith caution. Evidently the Prince was afraid of encouraging any hopesof future intercourse. But there was a touch of tenderness in the voiceuttering in the dark the guarded general phrases of goodwill. And thePrince too said-- "I have perfect confidence in you, Mr. Razumov. " "They all, it seems, have confidence in me, " thought Razumov dully. Hehad an indulgent contempt for the man sitting shoulder to shoulder withhim in the confined space. Probably he was afraid of scenes with hiswife. She was said to be proud and violent. It seemed to him bizarre that secrecy should play such a large part inthe comfort and safety of lives. But he wanted to put the Prince'smind at ease; and with a proper amount of emphasis he said that, beingconscious of some small abilities and confident in his power of work, hetrusted his future to his own exertions. He expressed his gratitude forthe helping hand. Such dangerous situations did not occur twice in thecourse of one life--he added. "And you have met this one with a firmness of mind and correctnessof feeling which give me a high idea of your worth, " the Prince saidsolemnly. "You have now only to persevere--to persevere. " On getting out on the pavement Razumov saw an ungloved hand extended tohim through the lowered window of the brougham. It detained his own inits grasp for a moment, while the light of a street lamp fell upon thePrince's long face and old-fashioned grey whiskers. "I hope you are perfectly reassured now as to the consequences... " "After what your Excellency has condescended to do for me, I can onlyrely on my conscience. " "_Adieu_, " said the whiskered head with feeling. Razumov bowed. The brougham glided away with a slight swish in thesnow--he was alone on the edge of the pavement. He said to himself that there was nothing to think about, and beganwalking towards his home. He walked quietly. It was a common experience to walk thus home to bedafter an evening spent somewhere with his fellows or in the cheaperseats of a theatre. After he had gone a little way the familiarity ofthings got hold of him. Nothing was changed. There was the familiarcorner; and when he turned it he saw the familiar dim light of theprovision shop kept by a German woman. There were loaves of stale bread, bunches of onions and strings of sausages behind the small window-panes. They were closing it. The sickly lame fellow whom he knew so well bysight staggered out into the snow embracing a large shutter. Nothing would change. There was the familiar gateway yawning black withfeeble glimmers marking the arches of the different staircases. The sense of life's continuity depended on trifling bodily impressions. The trivialities of daily existence were an armour for the soul. Andthis thought reinforced the inward quietness of Razumov as he began toclimb the stairs familiar to his feet in the dark, with his hand on thefamiliar clammy banister. The exceptional could not prevail against thematerial contacts which make one day resemble another. To-morrow wouldbe like yesterday. It was only on the stage that the unusual was outwardly acknowledged. "I suppose, " thought Razumov, "that if I had made up my mind to blow outmy brains on the landing I would be going up these stairs as quietlyas I am doing it now. What's a man to do? What must be must be. Extraordinary things do happen. But when they have happened they aredone with. Thus, too, when the mind is made up. That question is donewith. And the daily concerns, the familiarities of our thought swallowit up--and the life goes on as before with its mysterious and secretsides quite out of sight, as they should be. Life is a public thing. " Razumov unlocked his door and took the key out; entered very quietly andbolted the door behind him carefully. He thought, "He hears me, " and after bolting the door he stood stillholding his breath. There was not a sound. He crossed the bare outerroom, stepping deliberately in the darkness. Entering the other, he feltall over his table for the matchbox. The silence, but for the groping ofhis hand, was profound. Could the fellow be sleeping so soundly? He struck a light and looked at the bed. Haldin was lying on his back asbefore, only both his hands were under his head. His eyes were open. Hestared at the ceiling. Razumov held the match up. He saw the clear-cut features, the firmchin, the white forehead and the topknot of fair hair against the whitepillow. There he was, lying flat on his back. Razumov thought suddenly, "I have walked over his chest. " He continued to stare till the match burnt itself out; then struckanother and lit the lamp in silence without looking towards the bed anymore. He had turned his back on it and was hanging his coat on a pegwhen he heard Haldin sigh profoundly, then ask in a tired voice-- "Well! And what have you arranged?" The emotion was so great that Razumov was glad to put his hands againstthe wall. A diabolical impulse to say, "I have given you up to thepolice, " frightened him exceedingly. But he did not say that. He said, without turning round, in a muffled voice-- "It's done. " Again he heard Haldin sigh. He walked to the table, sat down with thelamp before him, and only then looked towards the bed. In the distant corner of the large room far away from the lamp, whichwas small and provided with a very thick china shade, Haldin appearedlike a dark and elongated shape--rigid with the immobility of death. This body seemed to have less substance than its own phantom walked overby Razumov in the street white with snow. It was more alarming in itsshadowy, persistent reality than the distinct but vanishing illusion. Haldin was heard again. "You must have had a walk--such a walk, ... " he murmureddeprecatingly. "This weather.... " Razumov answered with energy-- "Horrible walk.... A nightmare of a walk. " He shuddered audibly. Haldin sighed once more, then-- "And so you have seen Ziemianitch--brother?" "I've seen him. " Razumov, remembering the time he had spent with the Prince, thought itprudent to add, "I had to wait some time. " "A character--eh? It's extraordinary what a sense of the necessity offreedom there is in that man. And he has sayings too--simple, to thepoint, such as only the people can invent in their rough sagacity. Acharacter that.... " "I, you understand, haven't had much opportunity.... " Razumovmuttered through his teeth. Haldin continued to stare at the ceiling. "You see, brother, I have been a good deal in that house of late. I usedto take there books--leaflets. Not a few of the poor people who livethere can read. And, you see, the guests for the feast of freedom mustbe sought for in byways and hedges. The truth is, I have almost lived inthat house of late. I slept sometimes in the stable. There is astable.... " "That's where I had my interview with Ziemianitch, " interruptedRazumov gently. A mocking spirit entered into him and he added, "It wassatisfactory in a sense. I came away from it much relieved. " "Ah! he's a fellow, " went on Haldin, talking slowly at the ceiling. "Icame to know him in that way, you see. For some weeks now, ever since Iresigned myself to do what had to be done, I tried to isolate myself. Igave up my rooms. What was the good of exposing a decent widow womanto the risk of being worried out of her mind by the police? I gave upseeing any of our comrades.... " Razumov drew to himself a half-sheet of paper and began to trace lineson it with a pencil. "Upon my word, " he thought angrily, "he seems to have thought ofeverybody's safety but mine. " Haldin was talking on. "This morning--ah! this morning--that was different. How can I explainto you? Before the deed was done I wandered at night and lay hid in theday, thinking it out, and I felt restful. Sleepless but restful. Whatwas there for me to torment myself about? But this morning--after! Thenit was that I became restless. I could not have stopped in that bighouse full of misery. The miserable of this world can't give you peace. Then when that silly caretaker began to shout, I said to myself, 'There is a young man in this town head and shoulders above commonprejudices. '" "Is he laughing at me?" Razumov asked himself, going on with hisaimless drawing of triangles and squares. And suddenly he thought: "Mybehaviour must appear to him strange. Should he take fright at my mannerand rush off somewhere I shall be undone completely. That infernalGeneral.... " He dropped the pencil and turned abruptly towards the bed with theshadowy figure extended full length on it--so much more indistinct thanthe one over whose breast he had walked without faltering. Was this, too, a phantom? The silence had lasted a long time. "He is no longer here, " was thethought against which Razumov struggled desperately, quite frightened atits absurdity. "He is already gone and this... Only... " He could resist no longer. He sprang to his feet, saying aloud, "I amintolerably anxious, " and in a few headlong strides stood by the sideof the bed. His hand fell lightly on Haldin's shoulder, and directlyhe felt its reality he was beset by an insane temptation to grip thatexposed throat and squeeze the breath out of that body, lest it shouldescape his custody, leaving only a phantom behind. Haldin did not stir a limb, but his overshadowed eyes moving a littlegazed upwards at Razumov with wistful gratitude for this manifestationof feeling. Razumov turned away and strode up and down the room. "It would have beenpossibly a kindness, " he muttered to himself, and was appalled by thenature of that apology for a murderous intention his mind had foundsomewhere within him. And all the same he could not give it up. Hebecame lucid about it. "What can he expect?" he thought. "The halter--inthe end. And I.... " This argument was interrupted by Haldin's voice. "Why be anxious for me? They can kill my body, but they cannot exile mysoul from this world. I tell you what--I believe in this world so muchthat I cannot conceive eternity otherwise than as a very long life. Thatis perhaps the reason I am so ready to die. " "H'm, " muttered Razumov, and biting his lower lip he continued to walkup and down and to carry on his strange argument. Yes, to a man in such a situation--of course it would be an act ofkindness. The question, however, was not how to be kind, but how to befirm. He was a slippery customer. "I too, Victor Victorovitch, believe in this world of ours, " he saidwith force. "I too, while I live.... But you seem determined to hauntit. You can't seriously... Mean... " The voice of the motionless Haldin began-- "Haunt it! Truly, the oppressors of thought which quickens the world, the destroyers of souls which aspire to perfection of human dignity, they shall be haunted. As to the destroyers of my mere body, I haveforgiven them beforehand. " Razumov had stopped apparently to listen, but at the same time he wasobserving his own sensations. He was vexed with himself for attaching somuch importance to what Haldin said. "The fellow's mad, " he thought firmly, but this opinion did not mollifyhim towards Haldin. It was a particularly impudent form of lunacy--andwhen it got loose in the sphere of public life of a country, it wasobviously the duty of every good citizen.... This train of thought broke off short there and was succeeded by aparoxysm of silent hatred towards Haldin, so intense that Razumovhastened to speak at random. "Yes. Eternity, of course. I, too, can't very well represent it tomyself.... I imagine it, however, as something quiet and dull. Therewould be nothing unexpected--don't you see? The element of time would bewanting. " He pulled out his watch and gazed at it. Haldin turned over on his sideand looked on intently. Razumov got frightened at this movement. A slippery customer this fellowwith a phantom. It was not midnight yet. He hastened on-- "And unfathomable mysteries! Can you conceive secret places in Eternity?Impossible. Whereas life is full of them. There are secrets of birth, for instance. One carries them on to the grave. There is somethingcomical... But never mind. And there are secret motives of conduct. Aman's most open actions have a secret side to them. That is interestingand so unfathomable! For instance, a man goes out of a room for a walk. Nothing more trivial in appearance. And yet it may be momentous. Hecomes back--he has seen perhaps a drunken brute, taken particular noticeof the snow on the ground--and behold he is no longer the same man. Themost unlikely things have a secret power over one's thoughts--the greywhiskers of a particular person--the goggle eyes of another. " Razumov's forehead was moist. He took a turn or two in the room, hishead low and smiling to himself viciously. "Have you ever reflected on the power of goggle eyes and grey whiskers?Excuse me. You seem to think I must be crazy to talk in this vein atsuch a time. But I am not talking lightly. I have seen instances. It hashappened to me once to be talking to a man whose fate was affected byphysical facts of that kind. And the man did not know it. Of course, itwas a case of conscience, but the material facts such as these broughtabout the solution.... And you tell me, Victor Victorovitch, not tobe anxious! Why! I am responsible for you, " Razumov almost shrieked. He avoided with difficulty a burst of Mephistophelian laughter. Haldin, very pale, raised himself on his elbow. "And the surprises of life, " went on Razumov, after glancing at theother uneasily. "Just consider their astonishing nature. A mysteriousimpulse induces you to come here. I don't say you have done wrong. Indeed, from a certain point of view you could not have done better. Youmight have gone to a man with affections and family ties. You havesuch ties yourself. As to me, you know I have been brought up in aneducational institute where they did not give us enough to eat. To talkof affection in such a connexion--you perceive yourself.... Asto ties, the only ties I have in the world are social. I must getacknowledged in some way before I can act at all. I sit here working.... And don't you think I am working for progress too? I've got to findmy own ideas of the true way.... Pardon me, " continued Razumov, afterdrawing breath and with a short, throaty laugh, "but I haven't inheriteda revolutionary inspiration together with a resemblance from an uncle. " He looked again at his watch and noticed with sickening disgust thatthere were yet a good many minutes to midnight. He tore watch and chainoff his waistcoat and laid them on the table well in the circle ofbright lamplight. Haldin, reclining on his elbow, did not stir. Razumovwas made uneasy by this attitude. "What move is he meditating over soquietly?" he thought. "He must be prevented. I must keep on talking tohim. " He raised his voice. "You are a son, a brother, a nephew, a cousin--I don't know what--to noend of people. I am just a man. Here I stand before you. A man with amind. Did it ever occur to you how a man who had never heard a word ofwarm affection or praise in his life would think on matters on whichyou would think first with or against your class, your domestictradition--your fireside prejudices?... Did you ever consider how aman like that would feel? I have no domestic tradition. I have nothingto think against. My tradition is historical. What have I to look backto but that national past from which you gentlemen want to wrench awayyour future? Am I to let my intelligence, my aspirations towards abetter lot, be robbed of the only thing it has to go upon at the will ofviolent enthusiasts? You come from your province, but all this land ismine--or I have nothing. No doubt you shall be looked upon as a martyrsome day--a sort of hero--a political saint. But I beg to be excused. Iam content in fitting myself to be a worker. And what can you people doby scattering a few drops of blood on the snow? On this Immensity. Onthis unhappy Immensity! I tell you, " he cried, in a vibrating, subduedvoice, and advancing one step nearer the bed, "that what it needs is nota lot of haunting phantoms that I could walk through--but a man!" Haldin threw his arms forward as if to keep him off in horror. "I understand it all now, " he exclaimed, with awestruck dismay. "Iunderstand--at last. " Razumov staggered back against the table. His forehead broke out inperspiration while a cold shudder ran down his spine. "What have I been saying?" he asked himself. "Have I let him slipthrough my fingers after all?" "He felt his lips go stiff like buckram, and instead of a reassuringsmile only achieved an uncertain grimace. "What will you have?" he began in a conciliating voice which got steadyafter the first trembling word or two. "What will you have? Consider--aman of studious, retired habits--and suddenly like this.... I am notpractised in talking delicately. But... " He felt anger, a wicked anger, get hold of him again. "What were we to do together till midnight? Sit here opposite each otherand think of your--your--shambles?" Haldin had a subdued, heartbroken attitude. He bowed his head; his handshung between his knees. His voice was low and pained but calm. "I see now how it is, Razumov--brother. You are a magnanimous soul, butmy action is abhorrent to you--alas.... " Razumov stared. From fright he had set his teeth so hard that his wholeface ached. It was impossible for him to make a sound. "And even my person, too, is loathsome to you perhaps, " Haldin addedmournfully, after a short pause, looking up for a moment, then fixinghis gaze on the floor. "For indeed, unless one.... " He broke off evidently waiting for a word. Razumov remained silent. Haldin nodded his head dejectedly twice. "Of course. Of course, " he murmured.... "Ah! weary work!" He remained perfectly still for a moment, then made Razumov's leadenheart strike a ponderous blow by springing up briskly. "So be it, " he cried sadly in a low, distinct tone. "Farewell then. " Razumov started forward, but the sight of Haldin's raised hand checkedhim before he could get away from the table. He leaned on it heavily, listening to the faint sounds of some town clock tolling the hour. Haldin, already at the door, tall and straight as an arrow, with hispale face and a hand raised attentively, might have posed for the statueof a daring youth listening to an inner voice. Razumov mechanicallyglanced down at his watch. When he looked towards the door again Haldinhad vanished. There was a faint rustling in the outer room, the feebleclick of a bolt drawn back lightly. He was gone--almost as noiseless asa vision. Razumov ran forward unsteadily, with parted, voiceless lips. The outerdoor stood open. Staggering out on the landing, he leaned far over thebanister. Gazing down into the deep black shaft with a tiny glimmeringflame at the bottom, he traced by ear the rapid spiral descent ofsomebody running down the stairs on tiptoe. It was a light, swift, pattering sound, which sank away from him into the depths: a fleetingshadow passed over the glimmer--a wink of the tiny flame. Thenstillness. Razumov hung over, breathing the cold raw air tainted by the evil smellsof the unclean staircase. All quiet. He went back into his room slowly, shutting the doors after him. Thepeaceful steady light of his reading-lamp shone on the watch. Razumovstood looking down at the little white dial. It wanted yet three minutesto midnight. He took the watch into his hand fumblingly. "Slow, " he muttered, and a strange fit of nervelessness came over him. His knees shook, the watch and chain slipped through his fingers in aninstant and fell on the floor. He was so startled that he nearly fellhimself. When at last he regained enough confidence in his limbs tostoop for it he held it to his ear at once. After a while he growled-- "Stopped, " and paused for quite a long time before he muttered sourly-- "It's done.... And now to work. " He sat down, reached haphazard for a book, opened it in middle and beganto read; but after going conscientiously over two lines he lost his holdon the print completely and did not try to regain it. He thought-- "There was to a certainty a police agent of some sort watching the houseacross the street. " He imagined him lurking in a dark gateway, goggle-eyed, muffled up in acloak to the nose and with a General's plumed, cocked hat on his head. This absurdity made him start in the chair convulsively. He literallyhad to shake his head violently to get rid of it. The man would bedisguised perhaps as a peasant... A beggar.... Perhaps he wouldbe just buttoned up in a dark overcoat and carrying a loaded stick--ashifty-eyed rascal, smelling of raw onions and spirits. This evocation brought on positive nausea. "Why do I want to botherabout this?" thought Razumov with disgust. "Am I a gendarme? Moreover, it is done. " He got up in great agitation. It was not done. Not yet. Not tillhalf-past twelve. And the watch had stopped. This reduced him todespair. Impossible to know the time! The landlady and all the peopleacross the landing were asleep. How could he go and... God knowswhat they would imagine, or how much they would guess. He dared notgo into the streets to find out. "I am a suspect now. There's no useshirking that fact, " he said to himself bitterly. If Haldin fromsome cause or another gave them the slip and failed to turn up in theKarabelnaya the police would be invading his lodging. And if he were notin he could never clear himself. Never. Razumov looked wildly about asif for some means of seizing upon time which seemed to have escapedhim altogether. He had never, as far as he could remember, heard thestriking of that town clock in his rooms before this night. And he wasnot even sure now whether he had heard it really on this night. He went to the window and stood there with slightly bent head on thewatch for the faint sound. "I will stay here till I hear something, "he said to himself. He stood still, his ear turned to the panes. Anatrocious aching numbness with shooting pains in his back and legstortured him. He did not budge. His mind hovered on the borders ofdelirium. He heard himself suddenly saying, "I confess, " as a personmight do on the rack. "I am on the rack, " he thought. He felt ready toswoon. The faint deep boom of the distant clock seemed to explode in hishead--he heard it so clearly.... One! If Haldin had not turned up the police would have been already hereransacking the house. No sound reached him. This time it was done. He dragged himself painfully to the table and dropped into the chair. He flung the book away and took a square sheet of paper. It was like thepile of sheets covered with his neat minute handwriting, only blank. Hetook a pen brusquely and dipped it with a vague notion of going on withthe writing of his essay--but his pen remained poised over the sheet. It hung there for some time before it came down and formed long scrawlyletters. Still-faced and his lips set hard, Razumov began to write. When he wrotea large hand his neat writing lost its character altogether--becameunsteady, almost childish. He wrote five lines one under the other. History not Theory. Patriotism not Internationalism. Evolution notRevolution. Direction not Destruction. Unity not Disruption. He gazed at them dully. Then his eyes strayed to the bed and remainedfixed there for a good many minutes, while his right hand groped allover the table for the penknife. He rose at last, and walking up with measured steps stabbed the paperwith the penknife to the lath and plaster wall at the head of the bed. This done he stepped back a pace and flourished his hand with a glanceround the room. After that he never looked again at the bed. He took his big cloak downfrom its peg and, wrapping himself up closely, went to lie down onthe hard horse-hair sofa at the other side of his room. A leadensleep closed his eyelids at once. Several times that night he woke upshivering from a dream of walking through drifts of snow in a Russiawhere he was as completely alone as any betrayed autocrat could be; animmense, wintry Russia which, somehow, his view could embrace in all itsenormous expanse as if it were a map. But after each shuddering starthis heavy eyelids fell over his glazed eyes and he slept again. III Approaching this part of Mr. Razumov's story, my mind, the decent mindof an old teacher of languages, feels more and more the difficulty ofthe task. The task is not in truth the writing in the narrative form a _precis_of a strange human document, but the rendering--I perceive it nowclearly--of the moral conditions ruling over a large portion of thisearth's surface; conditions not easily to be understood, much lessdiscovered in the limits of a story, till some key-word is found; a wordthat could stand at the back of all the words covering the pages; a wordwhich, if not truth itself, may perchance hold truth enough to help themoral discovery which should be the object of every tale. I turn over for the hundredth time the leaves of Mr. Razumov's record, Ilay it aside, I take up the pen--and the pen being ready for its officeof setting down black on white I hesitate. For the word that persists increeping under its point is no other word than "cynicism. " For that is the mark of Russian autocracy and of Russian revolt. In itspride of numbers, in its strange pretensions of sanctity, and in thesecret readiness to abase itself in suffering, the spirit of Russia isthe spirit of cynicism. It informs the declarations of her statesmen, the theories of her revolutionists, and the mystic vaticinations ofprophets to the point of making freedom look like a form of debauch, andthe Christian virtues themselves appear actually indecent.... But Imust apologize for the digression. It proceeds from the considerationof the course taken by the story of Mr. Razumov after his conservativeconvictions, diluted in a vague liberalism natural to the ardour of hisage, had become crystallized by the shock of his contact with Haldin. Razumov woke up for the tenth time perhaps with a heavy shiver. Seeingthe light of day in his window, he resisted the inclination to layhimself down again. He did not remember anything, but he did not thinkit strange to find himself on the sofa in his cloak and chilled to thebone. The light coming through the window seemed strangely cheerless, containing no promise as the light of each new day should for a youngman. It was the awakening of a man mortally ill, or of a man ninetyyears old. He looked at the lamp which had burnt itself out. It stoodthere, the extinguished beacon of his labours, a cold object of brassand porcelain, amongst the scattered pages of his notes and smallpiles of books--a mere litter of blackened paper--dead matter--withoutsignificance or interest. He got on his feet, and divesting himself of his cloak hung it on thepeg, going through all the motions mechanically. An incredible dullness, a ditch-water stagnation was sensible to his perceptions as though lifehad withdrawn itself from all things and even from his own thoughts. There was not a sound in the house. Turning away from the peg, he thought in that same lifeless manner thatit must be very early yet; but when he looked at the watch on his tablehe saw both hands arrested at twelve o'clock. "Ah! yes, " he mumbled to himself, and as if beginning to get rouseda little he took a survey of his room. The paper stabbed to the wallarrested his attention. He eyed it from the distance without approval orperplexity; but when he heard the servant-girl beginning to bustle aboutin the outer room with the _samovar_ for his morning tea, he walked upto it and took it down with an air of profound indifference. While doing this he glanced down at the bed on which he had not sleptthat night. The hollow in the pillow made by the weight of Haldin's headwas very noticeable. Even his anger at this sign of the man's passage was dull. He did nottry to nurse it into life. He did nothing all that day; he neglectedeven to brush his hair. The idea of going out never occurred to him--andif he did not start a connected train of thought it was not because hewas unable to think. It was because he was not interested enough. He yawned frequently. He drank large quantities of tea, he walked aboutaimlessly, and when he sat down he did not budge for a long time. Hespent some time drumming on the window with his finger-tips quietly. Inhis listless wanderings round about the table he caught sight of his ownface in the looking-glass and that arrested him. The eyes which returnedhis stare were the most unhappy eyes he had ever seen. And this was thefirst thing which disturbed the mental stagnation of that day. He was not affected personally. He merely thought that life withouthappiness is impossible. What was happiness? He yawned and went onshuffling about and about between the walls of his room. Lookingforward was happiness--that's all--nothing more. To look forward tothe gratification of some desire, to the gratification of some passion, love, ambition, hate--hate too indubitably. Love and hate. And to escapethe dangers of existence, to live without fear, was also happiness. There was nothing else. Absence of fear--looking forward. "Oh! themiserable lot of humanity!" he exclaimed mentally; and added at once inhis thought, "I ought to be happy enough as far as that goes. " But hewas not excited by that assurance. On the contrary, he yawned again ashe had been yawning all day. He was mildly surprised to discover himselfbeing overtaken by night. The room grew dark swiftly though time hadseemed to stand still. How was it that he had not noticed the passing ofthat day? Of course, it was the watch being stopped.... He did not light his lamp, but went over to the bed and threw himself onit without any hesitation. Lying on his back, he put his hands under hishead and stared upward. After a moment he thought, "I am lying here likethat man. I wonder if he slept while I was struggling with the blizzardin the streets. No, he did not sleep. But why should I not sleep?" andhe felt the silence of the night press upon all his limbs like a weight. In the calm of the hard frost outside, the clear-cut strokes of the townclock counting off midnight penetrated the quietness of his suspendedanimation. Again he began to think. It was twenty-four hours since that man lefthis room. Razumov had a distinct feeling that Haldin in the fortress wassleeping that night. It was a certitude which made him angry becausehe did not want to think of Haldin, but he justified it to himself byphysiological and psychological reasons. The fellow had hardly slept forweeks on his own confession, and now every incertitude was at an endfor him. No doubt he was looking forward to the consummation of hismartyrdom. A man who resigns himself to kill need not go very far forresignation to die. Haldin slept perhaps more soundly than General T---, whose task--weary work too--was not done, and over whose head hung thesword of revolutionary vengeance. Razumov, remembering the thick-set man with his heavy jowl resting onthe collar of his uniform, the champion of autocracy, who had let nosign of surprise, incredulity, or joy escape him, but whose goggle eyescould express a mortal hatred of all rebellion--Razumov moved uneasilyon the bed. "He suspected me, " he thought. "I suppose he must suspect everybody. Hewould be capable of suspecting his own wife, if Haldin had gone to herboudoir with his confession. " Razumov sat up in anguish. Was he to remain a political suspect all hisdays? Was he to go through life as a man not wholly to be trusted--witha bad secret police note tacked on to his record? What sort of futurecould he look forward to? "I am now a suspect, " he thought again; but the habit of reflection andthat desire of safety, of an ordered life, which was so strong in himcame to his assistance as the night wore on. His quiet, steady, andlaborious existence would vouch at length for his loyalty. There weremany permitted ways to serve one's country. There was an activity thatmade for progress without being revolutionary. The field of influencewas great and infinitely varied--once one had conquered a name. His thought like a circling bird reverted after four-and-twenty hours tothe silver medal, and as it were poised itself there. When the day broke he had not slept, not for a moment, but he got upnot very tired and quite sufficiently self-possessed for all practicalpurposes. He went out and attended three lectures in the morning. But the work inthe library was a mere dumb show of research. He sat with many volumesopen before him trying to make notes and extracts. His new tranquillitywas like a flimsy garment, and seemed to float at the mercy of a casualword. Betrayal! Why! the fellow had done all that was necessary tobetray himself. Precious little had been needed to deceive him. "I have said no word to him that was not strictly true. Not one word, "Razumov argued with himself. Once engaged on this line of thought there could be no question of doinguseful work. The same ideas went on passing through his mind, and hepronounced mentally the same words over and over again. He shut up allthe books and rammed all his papers into his pocket with convulsivemovements, raging inwardly against Haldin. As he was leaving the library a long bony student in a threadbareovercoat joined him, stepping moodily by his side. Razumov answered hismumbled greeting without looking at him at all. "What does he want with me?" he thought with a strange dread of theunexpected which he tried to shake off lest it should fasten itselfupon his life for good and all. And the other, muttering cautiously withdowncast eyes, supposed that his comrade had seen the news of de P---'sexecutioner--that was the expression he used--having been arrested thenight before last.... "I've been ill--shut up in my rooms, " Razumov mumbled through his teeth. The tall student, raising his shoulders, shoved his hands deep into hispockets. He had a hairless, square, tallowy chin which trembled slightlyas he spoke, and his nose nipped bright red by the sharp air looked likea false nose of painted cardboard between the sallow cheeks. His wholeappearance was stamped with the mark of cold and hunger. He stalkeddeliberately at Razumov's elbow with his eyes on the ground. "It's an official statement, " he continued in the same cautious mutter. "It may be a lie. But there was somebody arrested between midnight andone in the morning on Tuesday. This is certain. " And talking rapidly under the cover of his downcast air, he told Razumovthat this was known through an inferior Government clerk employed atthe Central Secretariat. That man belonged to one of the revolutionarycircles. "The same, in fact, I am affiliated to, " remarked the student. They were crossing a wide quadrangle. An infinite distress possessedRazumov, annihilated his energy, and before his eyes everything appearedconfused and as if evanescent. He dared not leave the fellow there. "Hemay be affiliated to the police, " was the thought that passed throughhis mind. "Who could tell?" But eyeing the miserable frost-nipped, famine-struck figure of his companion he perceived the absurdity of hissuspicion. "But I--you know--I don't belong to any circle. I.... " He dared not say any more. Neither dared he mend his pace. Theother, raising and setting down his lamentably shod feet with exactdeliberation, protested in a low tone that it was not necessary foreverybody to belong to an organization. The most valuable personalitiesremained outside. Some of the best work was done outside theorganization. Then very fast, with whispering, feverish lips-- "The man arrested in the street was Haldin. " And accepting Razumov's dismayed silence as natural enough, he assuredhim that there was no mistake. That Government clerk was on night dutyat the Secretariat. Hearing a great noise of footsteps in the hall andaware that political prisoners were brought over sometimes at night fromthe fortress, he opened the door of the room in which he was working, suddenly. Before the gendarme on duty could push him back and slam thedoor in his face, he had seen a prisoner being partly carried, partlydragged along the hall by a lot of policemen. He was being used verybrutally. And the clerk had recognized Haldin perfectly. Less than halfan hour afterwards General T--- arrived at the Secretariat to examinethat prisoner personally. "Aren't you astonished?" concluded the gaunt student. "No, " said Razumov roughly--and at once regretted his answer. "Everybody supposed Haldin was in the provinces--with his people. Didn'tyou?" The student turned his big hollow eyes upon Razumov, who saidunguardedly-- "His people are abroad. " He could have bitten his tongue out with vexation. The studentpronounced in a tone of profound meaning-- "So! You alone were aware, ... " and stopped. "They have sworn my ruin, " thought Razumov. "Have you spoken of this toanyone else?" he asked with bitter curiosity. The other shook his head. "No, only to you. Our circle thought that as Haldin had been often heardexpressing a warm appreciation of your character.... " Razumov could not restrain a gesture of angry despair which the othermust have misunderstood in some way, because he ceased speaking andturned away his black, lack-lustre eyes. They moved side by side in silence. Then the gaunt student began towhisper again, with averted gaze-- "As we have at present no one affiliated inside the fortress so asto make it possible to furnish him with a packet of poison, we haveconsidered already some sort of retaliatory action--to follow verysoon.... " Razumov trudging on interrupted-- "Were you acquainted with Haldin? Did he know where you live?" "I had the happiness to hear him speak twice, " his companion answered inthe feverish whisper contrasting with the gloomy apathy of his face andbearing. "He did not know where I live.... I am lodging poorly withan artisan family.... I have just a corner in a room. It is not verypracticable to see me there, but if you should need me for anything I amready.... " Razumov trembled with rage and fear. He was beside himself, but kept hisvoice low. "You are not to come near me. You are not to speak to me. Never addressa single word to me. I forbid you. " "Very well, " said the other submissively, showing no surprise whateverat this abrupt prohibition. "You don't wish for secret reasons... Perfectly... I understand. " He edged away at once, not looking up even; and Razumov saw his gaunt, shabby, famine-stricken figure cross the street obliquely with loweredhead and that peculiar exact motion of the feet. He watched him as one would watch a vision out of a nightmare, then hecontinued on his way, trying not to think. On his landing the landladyseemed to be waiting for him. She was a short, thick, shapeless womanwith a large yellow face wrapped up everlastingly in a black woollenshawl. When she saw him come up the last flight of stairs she flung bothher arms up excitedly, then clasped her hands before her face. "Kirylo Sidorovitch--little father--what have you been doing? And sucha quiet young man, too! The police are just gone this moment aftersearching your rooms. " Razumov gazed down at her with silent, scrutinizing attention. Her puffyyellow countenance was working with emotion. She screwed up her eyes athim entreatingly. "Such a sensible young man! Anybody can see you are sensible. Andnow--like this--all at once.... What is the good of mixing yourselfup with these Nihilists? Do give over, little father. They are unluckypeople. " Razumov moved his shoulders slightly. "Or is it that some secret enemy has been calumniating you, KiryloSidorovitch? The world is full of black hearts and false denunciationsnowadays. There is much fear about. " "Have you heard that I have been denounced by some one?" asked Razumov, without taking his eyes off her quivering face. But she had not heard anything. She had tried to find out by askingthe police captain while his men were turning the room upside down. Thepolice captain of the district had known her for the last eleven yearsand was a humane person. But he said to her on the landing, looking veryblack and vexed-- "My good woman, do not ask questions. I don't know anything myself. Theorder comes from higher quarters. " And indeed there had appeared, shortly after the arrival of thepolicemen of the district, a very superior gentleman in a fur coat anda shiny hat, who sat down in the room and looked through all the papershimself. He came alone and went away by himself, taking nothing withhim. She had been trying to put things straight a little since theyleft. Razumov turned away brusquely and entered his rooms. All his books had been shaken and thrown on the floor. His landladyfollowed him, and stooping painfully began to pick them up into herapron. His papers and notes which were kept always neatly sorted (theyall related to his studies) had been shuffled up and heaped togetherinto a ragged pile in the middle of the table. This disorder affected him profoundly, unreasonably. He sat downand stared. He had a distinct sensation of his very existence beingundermined in some mysterious manner, of his moral supports falling awayfrom him one by one. He even experienced a slight physical giddiness andmade a movement as if to reach for something to steady himself with. The old woman, rising to her feet with a low groan, shot all thebooks she had collected in her apron on to the sofa and left the roommuttering and sighing. It was only then that he noticed that the sheet of paper which for onenight had remained stabbed to the wall above his empty bed was lying ontop of the pile. When he had taken it down the day before he had folded it in four, absent-mindedly, before dropping it on the table. And now he saw itlying uppermost, spread out, smoothed out even and covering all theconfused pile of pages, the record of his intellectual life for thelast three years. It had not been flung there. It had been placedthere--smoothed out, too! He guessed in that an intention of profoundmeaning--or perhaps some inexplicable mockery. He sat staring at the piece of paper till his eyes began to smart. Hedid not attempt to put his papers in order, either that evening or thenext day--which he spent at home in a state of peculiar irresolution. This irresolution bore upon the question whether he should continue tolive--neither more nor less. But its nature was very far removed fromthe hesitation of a man contemplating suicide. The idea of layingviolent hands upon his body did not occur to Razumov. The unrelatedorganism bearing that label, walking, breathing, wearing these clothes, was of no importance to anyone, unless maybe to the landlady. The trueRazumov had his being in the willed, in the determined future--in thatfuture menaced by the lawlessness of autocracy--for autocracy knowsno law--and the lawlessness of revolution. The feeling that his moralpersonality was at the mercy of these lawless forces was so strong thathe asked himself seriously if it were worth while to go on accomplishingthe mental functions of that existence which seemed no longer his own. "What is the good of exerting my intelligence, of pursuing thesystematic development of my faculties and all my plans of work?" heasked himself. "I want to guide my conduct by reasonable convictions, but what security have I against something--some destructivehorror--walking in upon me as I sit here?... " Razumov looked apprehensively towards the door of the outer room as ifexpecting some shape of evil to turn the handle and appear before himsilently. "A common thief, " he said to himself, "finds more guarantees in the lawhe is breaking, and even a brute like Ziemianitch has his consolation. "Razumov envied the materialism of the thief and the passion of theincorrigible lover. The consequences of their actions were always clearand their lives remained their own. But he slept as soundly that night as though he had been consolinghimself in the manner of Ziemianitch. He dropped off suddenly, lay likea log, remembered no dream on waking. But it was as if his soul had goneout in the night to gather the flowers of wrathful wisdom. He got up ina mood of grim determination and as if with a new knowledge of his ownnature. He looked mockingly on the heap of papers on his table; and lefthis room to attend the lectures, muttering to himself, "We shall see. " He was in no humour to talk to anybody or hear himself questioned asto his absence from lectures the day before. But it was difficult torepulse rudely a very good comrade with a smooth pink face and fairhair, bearing the nickname amongst his fellow-students of "MadcapKostia. " He was the idolized only son of a very wealthy and illiterateGovernment contractor, and attended the lectures only during theperiodical fits of contrition following upon tearful paternalremonstrances. Noisily blundering like a retriever puppy, his elatedvoice and great gestures filled the bare academy corridors with thejoy of thoughtless animal life, provoking indulgent smiles at a greatdistance. His usual discourses treated of trotting horses, wine-partiesin expensive restaurants, and the merits of persons of easy virtue, with a disarming artlessness of outlook. He pounced upon Razumov aboutmidday, somewhat less uproariously than his habit was, and led himaside. "Just a moment, Kirylo Sidorovitch. A few words here in this quietcorner. " He felt Razumov's reluctance, and insinuated his hand under his armcaressingly. "No--pray do. I don't want to talk to you about any of my silly scrapes. What are my scrapes? Absolutely nothing. Mere childishness. The othernight I flung a fellow out of a certain place where I was having afairly good time. A tyrannical little beast of a quill-driver from theTreasury department. He was bullying the people of the house. I rebukedhim. 'You are not behaving humanely to God's creatures that are a jollysight more estimable than yourself, ' I said. I can't bear to see anytyranny, Kirylo Sidorovitch. Upon my word I can't. He didn't take it ingood part at all. 'Who's that impudent puppy?' he begins to shout. Iwas in excellent form as it happened, and he went through the closedwindow very suddenly. He flew quite a long way into the yard. I ragedlike--like a--minotaur. The women clung to me and screamed, the fiddlersgot under the table.... Such fun! My dad had to put his hand prettydeep into his pocket, I can tell you. " He chuckled. "My dad is a very useful man. Jolly good thing it is for me, too. I doget into unholy scrapes. " His elation fell. That was just it. What was his life? Insignificant;no good to anyone; a mere festivity. It would end some fine day in hisgetting his skull split with a champagne bottle in a drunken brawl. Atsuch times, too, when men were sacrificing themselves to ideas. But hecould never get any ideas into his head. His head wasn't worth anythingbetter than to be split by a champagne bottle. Razumov, protesting that he had no time, made an attempt to get away. The other's tone changed to confidential earnestness. "For God's sake, Kirylo, my dear soul, let me make some sort ofsacrifice. It would not be a sacrifice really. I have my rich dad behindme. There's positively no getting to the bottom of his pocket. " And rejecting indignantly Razumov's suggestion that this was drunkenraving, he offered to lend him some money to escape abroad with. Hecould always get money from his dad. He had only to say that he hadlost it at cards or something of that sort, and at the same time promisesolemnly not to miss a single lecture for three months on end. Thatwould fetch the old man; and he, Kostia, was quite equal to thesacrifice. Though he really did not see what was the good for him toattend the lectures. It was perfectly hopeless. "Won't you let me be of some use?" he pleaded to the silent Razumov, who with his eyes on the ground and utterly unable to penetrate the realdrift of the other's intention, felt a strange reluctance to clear upthe point. "What makes you think I want to go abroad?" he asked at last veryquietly. Kostia lowered his voice. "You had the police in your rooms yesterday. There are three or four ofus who have heard of that. Never mind how we know. It is sufficient thatwe do. So we have been consulting together. " "Ah! You got to know that so soon, " muttered Razumov negligently. "Yes. We did. And it struck us that a man like you... " "What sort of a man do you take me to be?" Razumov interrupted him. "A man of ideas--and a man of action too. But you are very deep, Kirylo. There's no getting to the bottom of your mind. Not for fellows like me. But we all agreed that you must be preserved for our country. Of that wehave no doubt whatever--I mean all of us who have heard Haldin speak ofyou on certain occasions. A man doesn't get the police ransacking hisrooms without there being some devilry hanging over his head.... Andso if you think that it would be better for you to bolt at once.... " Razumov tore himself away and walked down the corridor, leaving theother motionless with his mouth open. But almost at once he returnedand stood before the amazed Kostia, who shut his mouth slowly. Razumovlooked him straight in the eyes, before saying with marked deliberationand separating his words-- "I thank--you--very--much. " He went away again rapidly. Kostia, recovering from his surprise atthese manoeuvres, ran up behind him pressingly. "No! Wait! Listen. I really mean it. It would be like giving yourcompassion to a starving fellow. Do you hear, Kirylo? And any disguiseyou may think of, that too I could procure from a costumier, a Jew Iknow. Let a fool be made serviceable according to his folly. Perhapsalso a false beard or something of that kind may be needed. "Razumov turned at bay. "There are no false beards needed in this business, Kostia--yougood-hearted lunatic, you. What do you know of my ideas? My ideas may bepoison to you. " The other began to shake his head in energetic protest. "What have you got to do with ideas? Some of them would make an endof your dad's money-bags. Leave off meddling with what you don'tunderstand. Go back to your trotting horses and your girls, and thenyou'll be sure at least of doing no harm to anybody, and hardly any toyourself. " The enthusiastic youth was overcome by this disdain. "You're sending me back to my pig's trough, Kirylo. That settles it. Iam an unlucky beast--and I shall die like a beast too. But mind--it'syour contempt that has done for me. " Razumov went off with long strides. That this simple and grossly festivesoul should have fallen too under the revolutionary curse affected himas an ominous symptom of the time. He reproached himself for feelingtroubled. Personally he ought to have felt reassured. There was anobvious advantage in this conspiracy of mistaken judgment taking him forwhat he was not. But was it not strange? Again he experienced that sensation of his conduct being taken out ofhis hands by Haldin's revolutionary tyranny. His solitary and laboriousexistence had been destroyed--the only thing he could call his own onthis earth. By what right? he asked himself furiously. In what name? What infuriated him most was to feel that the "thinkers" of theUniversity were evidently connecting him with Haldin--as a sort ofconfidant in the background apparently. A mysterious connexion! Ha ha!... He had been made a personage without knowing anything about it. Howthat wretch Haldin must have talked about him! Yet it was likely thatHaldin had said very little. The fellow's casual utterances were caughtup and treasured and pondered over by all these imbeciles. And was notall secret revolutionary action based upon folly, self-deception, andlies? "Impossible to think of anything else, " muttered Razumov to himself. "I'll become an idiot if this goes on. The scoundrels and the fools aremurdering my intelligence. " He lost all hope of saving his future, which depended on the free use ofhis intelligence. He reached the doorway of his house in a state of mental discouragementwhich enabled him to receive with apparent indifference anofficial-looking envelope from the dirty hand of the dvornik. "A gendarme brought it, " said the man. "He asked if you were at home. I told him 'No, he's not at home. ' So he left it. 'Give it into his ownhands, ' says he. Now you've got it--eh?" He went back to his sweeping, and Razumov climbed his stairs, envelopein hand. Once in his room he did not hasten to open it. Of coursethis official missive was from the superior direction of the police. Asuspect! A suspect! He stared in dreary astonishment at the absurdity of his position. Hethought with a sort of dry, unemotional melancholy; three years of goodwork gone, the course of forty more perhaps jeopardized--turned fromhope to terror, because events started by human folly link themselvesinto a sequence which no sagacity can foresee and no courage can breakthrough. Fatality enters your rooms while your landlady's back isturned; you come home and find it in possession bearing a man's name, clothed in flesh--wearing a brown cloth coat and long boots--loungingagainst the stove. It asks you, "Is the outer door closed?"--and youdon't know enough to take it by the throat and fling it downstairs. Youdon't know. You welcome the crazy fate. "Sit down, " you say. And it isall over. You cannot shake it off any more. It will cling to you forever. Neither halter nor bullet can give you back the freedom of yourlife and the sanity of your thought.... It was enough to dash one'shead against a wall. Razumov looked slowly all round the walls as if to select a spot to dashhis head against. Then he opened the letter. It directed the studentKirylo Sidorovitch Razumov to present himself without delay at theGeneral Secretariat. Razumov had a vision of General T---'s goggle eyes waiting for him--theembodied power of autocracy, grotesque and terrible. He embodiedthe whole power of autocracy because he was its guardian. He was theincarnate suspicion, the incarnate anger, the incarnate ruthlessness ofa political and social regime on its defence. He loathed rebellionby instinct. And Razumov reflected that the man was simply unable tounderstand a reasonable adherence to the doctrine of absolutism. "What can he want with me precisely--I wonder?" he asked himself. As if that mental question had evoked the familiar phantom, Haldin stoodsuddenly before him in the room with an extraordinary completeness ofdetail. Though the short winter day had passed already into the sinistertwilight of a land buried in snow, Razumov saw plainly the narrowleather strap round the Tcherkess coat. The illusion of that hatefulpresence was so perfect that he half expected it to ask, "Is the outerdoor closed?" He looked at it with hatred and contempt. Souls do nottake a shape of clothing. Moreover, Haldin could not be dead yet. Razumov stepped forward menacingly; the vision vanished--and turningshort on his heel he walked out of his room with infinite disdain. But after going down the first flight of stairs it occurred to him thatperhaps the superior authorities of police meant to confront him withHaldin in the flesh. This thought struck him like a bullet, and had henot clung with both hands to the banister he would have rolled down tothe next landing most likely. His legs were of no use for a considerabletime.... But why? For what conceivable reason? To what end? There could be no rational answer to these questions; but Razumovremembered the promise made by the General to Prince K---. His actionwas to remain unknown. He got down to the bottom of the stairs, lowering himself as it werefrom step to step, by the banister. Under the gate he regained much ofhis firmness of thought and limb. He went out into the street withoutstaggering visibly. Every moment he felt steadier mentally. And yethe was saying to himself that General T--- was perfectly capable ofshutting him up in the fortress for an indefinite time. His temperamentfitted his remorseless task, and his omnipotence made him inaccessibleto reasonable argument. But when Razumov arrived at the Secretariat he discovered that he wouldhave nothing to do with General T---. It is evident from Mr. Razumov'sdiary that this dreaded personality was to remain in the background. Acivilian of superior rank received him in a private room after a periodof waiting in outer offices where a lot of scribbling went on at manytables in a heated and stuffy atmosphere. The clerk in uniform who conducted him said in the corridor-- "You are going before Gregor Matvieitch Mikulin. " There was nothing formidable about the man bearing that name. His mild, expectant glance was turned on the door already when Razumov entered. At once, with the penholder he was holding in his hand, he pointed to adeep sofa between two windows. He followed Razumov with his eyes whilethat last crossed the room and sat down. The mild gaze rested on him, not curious, not inquisitive--certainly not suspicious--almostwithout expression. In its passionless persistence there was somethingresembling sympathy. Razumov, who had prepared his will and his intelligence to encounterGeneral T--- himself, was profoundly troubled. All the moral bracingup against the possible excesses of power and passion went for nothingbefore this sallow man, who wore a full unclipped beard. It wasfair, thin, and very fine. The light fell in coppery gleams on theprotuberances of a high, rugged forehead. And the aspect of the broad, soft physiognomy was so homely and rustic that the careful middleparting of the hair seemed a pretentious affectation. The diary of Mr. Razumov testifies to some irritation on his part. I mayremark here that the diary proper consisting of the more or less dailyentries seems to have been begun on that very evening after Mr. Razumovhad returned home. Mr. Razumov, then, was irritated. His strung-up individuality had goneto pieces within him very suddenly. "I must be very prudent with him, " he warned himself in the silenceduring which they sat gazing at each other. It lasted some little time, and was characterized (for silences have their character) by a sort ofsadness imparted to it perhaps by the mild and thoughtful manner ofthe bearded official. Razumov learned later that he was the chief of adepartment in the General Secretariat, with a rank in the civil serviceequivalent to that of a colonel in the army. Razumov's mistrust became acute. The main point was, not to be drawninto saying too much. He had been called there for some reason. Whatreason? To be given to understand that he was a suspect--and also nodoubt to be pumped. As to what precisely? There was nothing. Or perhapsHaldin had been telling lies.... Every alarming uncertainty besetRazumov. He could bear the silence no longer, and cursing himself forhis weakness spoke first, though he had promised himself not to do so onany account. "I haven't lost a moment's time, " he began in a hoarse, provoking tone;and then the faculty of speech seemed to leave him and enter the body ofCouncillor Mikulin, who chimed in approvingly-- "Very proper. Very proper. Though as a matter of fact.... " But the spell was broken, and Razumov interrupted him boldly, undera sudden conviction that this was the safest attitude to take. With agreat flow of words he complained of being totally misunderstood. Evenas he talked with a perception of his own audacity he thought thatthe word "misunderstood" was better than the word "mistrusted, " and herepeated it again with insistence. Suddenly he ceased, being seizedwith fright before the attentive immobility of the official. "What amI talking about?" he thought, eyeing him with a vague gaze. Mistrusted--not misunderstood--was the right symbol for these people. Misunderstood was the other kind of curse. Both had been brought on hishead by that fellow Haldin. And his head ached terribly. He passed hishand over his brow--an involuntary gesture of suffering, which he wastoo careless to restrain. At that moment Razumov beheld his own brainsuffering on the rack--a long, pale figure drawn asunder horizontallywith terrific force in the darkness of a vault, whose face he failed tosee. It was as though he had dreamed for an infinitesimal fraction oftime of some dark print of the Inquisition. It is not to be seriously supposed that Razumov had actually dozed offand had dreamed in the presence of Councillor Mikulin, of an old printof the Inquisition. He was indeed extremely exhausted, and he recordsa remarkably dream-like experience of anguish at the circumstancethat there was no one whatever near the pale and extended figure. Thesolitude of the racked victim was particularly horrible to behold. Themysterious impossibility to see the face, he also notes, inspired a sortof terror. All these characteristics of an ugly dream were present. Yethe is certain that he never lost the consciousness of himself on thesofa, leaning forward with his hands between his knees and turning hiscap round and round in his fingers. But everything vanished at the voiceof Councillor Mikulin. Razumov felt profoundly grateful for the evensimplicity of its tone. "Yes. I have listened with interest. I comprehend in a measure your... But, indeed, you are mistaken in what you.... " Councillor Mikulinuttered a series of broken sentences. Instead of finishing them heglanced down his beard. It was a deliberate curtailment which somehowmade the phrases more impressive. But he could talk fluently enough, asbecame apparent when changing his tone to persuasiveness he went on: "Bylistening to you as I did, I think I have proved that I do not regardour intercourse as strictly official. In fact, I don't want it to havethat character at all.... Oh yes! I admit that the request for yourpresence here had an official form. But I put it to you whether it was aform which would have been used to secure the attendance of a.... " "Suspect, " exclaimed Razumov, looking straight into the official'seyes. They were big with heavy eyelids, and met his boldness with a dim, steadfast gaze. "A suspect. " The open repetition of that word whichhad been haunting all his waking hours gave Razumov a strange sort ofsatisfaction. Councillor Mikulin shook his head slightly. "Surely you doknow that I've had my rooms searched by the police?" "I was about to say a 'misunderstood person, ' when you interrupted me, "insinuated quietly Councillor Mikulin. Razumov smiled without bitterness. The renewed sense of his intellectualsuperiority sustained him in the hour of danger. He said a littledisdainfully-- "I know I am but a reed. But I beg you to allow me the superiority ofthe thinking reed over the unthinking forces that are about to crushhim out of existence. Practical thinking in the last instance is butcriticism. I may perhaps be allowed to express my wonder at this actionof the police being delayed for two full days during which, of course, I could have annihilated everything compromising by burning it--let ussay--and getting rid of the very ashes, for that matter. " "You are angry, " remarked the official, with an unutterable simplicityof tone and manner. "Is that reasonable?" Razumov felt himself colouring with annoyance. "I am reasonable. I am even--permit me to say--a thinker, though tobe sure, this name nowadays seems to be the monopoly of hawkers ofrevolutionary wares, the slaves of some French or German thought--devilknows what foreign notions. But I am not an intellectual mongrel. Ithink like a Russian. I think faithfully--and I take the liberty to callmyself a thinker. It is not a forbidden word, as far as I know. " "No. Why should it be a forbidden word?" Councillor Mikulin turned inhis seat with crossed legs and resting his elbow on the table proppedhis head on the knuckles of a half-closed hand. Razumov noticed a thickforefinger clasped by a massive gold band set with a blood-red stone--asignet ring that, looking as if it could weigh half a pound, wasan appropriate ornament for that ponderous man with the accuratemiddle-parting of glossy hair above a rugged Socratic forehead. "Could it be a wig?" Razumov detected himself wondering with anunexpected detachment. His self-confidence was much shaken. He resolvedto chatter no more. Reserve! Reserve! All he had to do was to keepthe Ziemianitch episode secret with absolute determination, when thequestions came. Keep Ziemianitch strictly out of all the answers. Councillor Mikulin looked at him dimly. Razumov's self-confidenceabandoned him completely. It seemed impossible to keep Ziemianitch out. Every question would lead to that, because, of course, there was nothingelse. He made an effort to brace himself up. It was a failure. ButCouncillor Mikulin was surprisingly detached too. "Why should it be forbidden?" he repeated. "I too consider myselfa thinking man, I assure you. The principal condition is to thinkcorrectly. I admit it is difficult sometimes at first for a young manabandoned to himself--with his generous impulses undisciplined, so tospeak--at the mercy of every wild wind that blows. Religious belief, ofcourse, is a great.... " Councillor Mikulin glanced down his beard, and Razumov, whose tensionwas relaxed by that unexpected and discursive turn, murmured with gloomydiscontent-- "That man, Haldin, believed in God. " "Ah! You are aware, " breathed out Councillor Mikulin, making the pointsoftly, as if with discretion, but making it nevertheless plainlyenough, as if he too were put off his guard by Razumov's remark. The young man preserved an impassive, moody countenance, though hereproached himself bitterly for a pernicious fool, to have given thus anutterly false impression of intimacy. He kept his eyes on the floor. "I must positively hold my tongue unless I am obliged to speak, " headmonished himself. And at once against his will the question, "Hadn'tI better tell him everything?" presented itself with such force that hehad to bite his lower lip. Councillor Mikulin could not, however, havenourished any hope of confession. He went on-- "You tell me more than his judges were able to get out of him. He wasjudged by a commission of three. He would tell them absolutely nothing. I have the report of the interrogatories here, by me. After everyquestion there stands 'Refuses to answer--refuses to answer. ' It's likethat page after page. You see, I have been entrusted with some furtherinvestigations around and about this affair. He has left me nothing tobegin my investigations on. A hardened miscreant. And so, you say, hebelieved in.... " Again Councillor Mikulin glanced down his beard with a faint grimace;but he did not pause for long. Remarking with a shade of scorn thatblasphemers also had that sort of belief, he concluded by supposing thatMr. Razumov had conversed frequently with Haldin on the subject. "No, " said Razumov loudly, without looking up. "He talked and Ilistened. That is not a conversation. " "Listening is a great art, " observed Mikulin parenthetically. "And getting people to talk is another, " mumbled Razumov. "Well, no--that is not very difficult, " Mikulin said innocently, "except, of course, in special cases. For instance, this Haldin. Nothingcould induce him to talk. He was brought four times before the delegatedjudges. Four secret interrogatories--and even during the last, when yourpersonality was put forward.... " "My personality put forward?" repeated Razumov, raising his headbrusquely. "I don't understand. " Councillor Mikulin turned squarely tothe table, and taking up some sheets of grey foolscap dropped them oneafter another, retaining only the last in his hand. He held it beforehis eyes while speaking. "It was--you see--judged necessary. In a case of that gravity no meansof action upon the culprit should be neglected. You understand thatyourself, I am certain. "Razumov stared with enormous wide eyes at the side view of CouncillorMikulin, who now was not looking at him at all. "So it was decided (I was consulted by General T---) that a certainquestion should be put to the accused. But in deference to the earnestwishes of Prince K--- your name has been kept out of the documentsand even from the very knowledge of the judges themselves. Prince K---recognized the propriety, the necessity of what we proposed to do, buthe was concerned for your safety. Things do leak out--that we can'tdeny. One cannot always answer for the discretion of inferior officials. There was, of course, the secretary of the special tribunal--one or twogendarmes in the room. Moreover, as I have said, in deference to PrinceK--- even the judges themselves were to be left in ignorance. Thequestion ready framed was sent to them by General T--- (I wrote it outwith my own hand) with instructions to put it to the prisoner the verylast of all. Here it is. "Councillor Mikulin threw back his head into proper focus and went onreading monotonously: 'Question--Has the man well known to you, in whoserooms you remained for several hours on Monday and on whose informationyou have been arrested--has he had any previous knowledge of yourintention to commit a political murder?... ' Prisoner refuses to reply. "Question repeated. Prisoner preserves the same stubborn silence. "The venerable Chaplain of the Fortress being then admitted andexhorting the prisoner to repentance, entreating him also to atone forhis crime by an unreserved and full confession which should help toliberate from the sin of rebellion against the Divine laws and thesacred Majesty of the Ruler, our Christ-loving land--the prisoner openshis lips for the first time during this morning's audience and in aloud, clear voice rejects the venerable Chaplain's ministrations. "At eleven o'clock the Court pronounces in summary form the deathsentence. "The execution is fixed for four o'clock in the afternoon, subject tofurther instructions from superior authorities. " Councillor Mikulin dropped the page of foolscap, glanced down his beard, and turning to Razumov, added in an easy, explanatory tone-- "We saw no object in delaying the execution. The order to carry out thesentence was sent by telegraph at noon. I wrote out the telegram myself. He was hanged at four o'clock this afternoon. " The definite information of Haldin's death gave Razumov the feeling ofgeneral lassitude which follows a great exertion or a great excitement. He kept very still on the sofa, but a murmur escaped him-- "He had a belief in a future existence. " Councillor Mikulin shrugged his shoulders slightly, and Razumov got upwith an effort. There was nothing now to stay for in that room. Haldinhad been hanged at four o'clock. There could be no doubt of that. Hehad, it seemed, entered upon his future existence, long boots, Astrakhanfur cap and all, down to the very leather strap round his waist. Aflickering, vanishing sort of existence. It was not his soul, it was hismere phantom he had left behind on this earth--thought Razumov, smilingcaustically to himself while he crossed the room, utterly forgetful ofwhere he was and of Councillor Mikulin's existence. The official couldhave set a lot of bells ringing all over the building without leavinghis chair. He let Razumov go quite up to the door before he spoke. "Come, Kirylo Sidorovitch--what are you doing?" Razumov turned his head and looked at him in silence. He was not in theleast disconcerted. Councillor Mikulin's arms were stretched out on thetable before him and his body leaned forward a little with an effort ofhis dim gaze. "Was I actually going to clear out like this?" Razumov wonderedat himself with an impassive countenance. And he was aware of thisimpassiveness concealing a lucid astonishment. "Evidently I was going out if he had not spoken, " he thought. "Whatwould he have done then? I must end this affair one way or another. Imust make him show his hand. " For a moment longer he reflected behind the mask as it were, then let gothe door-handle and came back to the middle of the room. "I'll tell you what you think, " he said explosively, but not raising hisvoice. "You think that you are dealing with a secret accomplice of thatunhappy man. No, I do not know that he was unhappy. He did not tell me. He was a wretch from my point of view, because to keep alive a falseidea is a greater crime than to kill a man. I suppose you will not denythat? I hated him! Visionaries work everlasting evil on earth. TheirUtopias inspire in the mass of mediocre minds a disgust of reality and acontempt for the secular logic of human development. " Razumov shrugged his shoulders and stared. "What a tirade!" he thought. The silence and immobility of Councillor Mikulin impressed him. Thebearded bureaucrat sat at his post, mysteriously self-possessed like anidol with dim, unreadable eyes. Razumov's voice changed involuntarily. "If you were to ask me where is the necessity of my hate for such asHaldin, I would answer you--there is nothing sentimental in it. I didnot hate him because he had committed the crime of murder. Abhorrence isnot hate. I hated him simply because I am sane. It is in that characterthat he outraged me. His death... " Razumov felt his voice growing thick in his throat. The dimness ofCouncillor Mikulin's eyes seemed to spread all over his face and made itindistinct to Razumov's sight. He tried to disregard these phenomena. "Indeed, " he pursued, pronouncing each word carefully, "what is hisdeath to me? If he were lying here on the floor I could walk over hisbreast.... The fellow is a mere phantom.... " Razumov's voice died out very much against his will. Mikulin behind thetable did not allow himself the slightest movement. The silence lastedfor some little time before Razumov could go on again. "He went about talking of me. Those intellectual fellows sit in eachother's rooms and get drunk on foreign ideas in the same way youngGuards' officers treat each other with foreign wines. Merest debauchery.... Upon my Word, "--Razumov, enraged by a sudden recollection ofZiemianitch, lowered his voice forcibly, --"upon my word, we Russians area drunken lot. Intoxication of some sort we must have: to get ourselveswild with sorrow or maudlin with resignation; to lie inert like a log orset fire to the house. What is a sober man to do, I should like to know?To cut oneself entirely from one's kind is impossible. To live ina desert one must be a saint. But if a drunken man runs out of thegrog-shop, falls on your neck and kisses you on both cheeks becausesomething about your appearance has taken his fancy, what then--kindlytell me? You may break, perhaps, a cudgel on his back and yet notsucceed in beating him off.... " Councillor Mikulin raised his hand and passed it down his facedeliberately. "That's... Of course, " he said in an undertone. The quiet gravity of that gesture made Razumov pause. It was sounexpected, too. What did it mean? It had an alarming aloofness. Razumovremembered his intention of making him show his hand. "I have said all this to Prince K---, " he began with assumedindifference, but lost it on seeing Councillor Mikulin's slow nod ofassent. "You know it? You've heard.... Then why should I be calledhere to be told of Haldin's execution? Did you want to confront me withhis silence now that the man is dead? What is his silence to me! This isincomprehensible. You want in some way to shake my moral balance. " "No. Not that, " murmured Councillor Mikulin, just audibly. "The serviceyou have rendered is appreciated.... " "Is it?" interrupted Razumov ironically. "... And your position too. " Councillor Mikulin did not raise hisvoice. "But only think! You fall into Prince K---'s study as if fromthe sky with your startling information.... You are studying yet, Mr. Razumov, but we are serving already--don't forget that.... Andnaturally some curiosity was bound to.... " Councillor Mikulin looked down his beard. Razumov's lips trembled. "An occurrence of that sort marks a man, " the homely murmur went on. "Iadmit I was curious to see you. General T--- thought it would be useful, too.... Don't think I am incapable of understanding your sentiments. When I was young like you I studied.... " "Yes--you wished to see me, " said Razumov in a tone of profounddistaste. "Naturally you have the right--I mean the power. It allamounts to the same thing. But it is perfectly useless, if you wereto look at me and listen to me for a year. I begin to think thereis something about me which people don't seem able to make out. It'sunfortunate. I imagine, however, that Prince K--- understands. He seemedto. " Councillor Mikulin moved slightly and spoke. "Prince K--- is aware of everything that is being done, and I don'tmind informing you that he approved my intention of becoming personallyacquainted with you. " Razumov concealed an immense disappointment under the accents of railingsurprise. "So he is curious too!... Well--after all, Prince K--- knows me verylittle. It is really very unfortunate for me, but--it is not exactly myfault. " Councillor Mikulin raised a hasty deprecatory hand and inclined his headslightly over his shoulder. "Now, Mr. Razumov--is it necessary to take it in that way? Everybody Iam sure can.... " He glanced rapidly down his beard, and when he looked up again therewas for a moment an interested expression in his misty gaze. Razumovdiscouraged it with a cold, repellent smile. "No. That's of no importance to be sure--except that in respect of allthis curiosity being aroused by a very simple matter.... What is tobe done with it? It is unappeasable. I mean to say there is nothing toappease it with. I happen to have been born a Russian with patrioticinstincts--whether inherited or not I am not in a position to say. " Razumov spoke consciously with elaborate steadiness. "Yes, patriotic instincts developed by a faculty of independentthinking--of detached thinking. In that respect I am more free than anysocial democratic revolution could make me. It is more than probablethat I don't think exactly as you are thinking. Indeed, how could it be?You would think most likely at this moment that I am elaborately lyingto cover up the track of my repentance. " Razumov stopped. His heart had grown too big for his breast. CouncillorMikulin did not flinch. "Why so?" he said simply. "I assisted personally at the search of yourrooms. I looked through all the papers myself. I have been greatlyimpressed by a sort of political confession of faith. A very remarkabledocument. Now may I ask for what purpose.... " "To deceive the police naturally, " said Razumov savagely.... "What isall this mockery? Of course you can send me straight from this roomto Siberia. That would be intelligible. To what is intelligible I cansubmit. But I protest against this comedy of persecution. The wholeaffair is becoming too comical altogether for my taste. A comedy oferrors, phantoms, and suspicions. It's positively indecent.... " Councillor Mikulin turned an attentive ear. "Did you say phantoms?" hemurmured. "I could walk over dozens of them. " Razumov, with an impatient wave ofhis hand, went on headlong, "But, really, I must claim the right to bedone once for all with that man. And in order to accomplish this I shalltake the liberty.... " Razumov on his side of the table bowed slightly to the seatedbureaucrat. "... To retire--simply to retire, " he finished with great resolution. He walked to the door, thinking, "Now he must show his hand. He mustring and have me arrested before I am out of the building, or he mustlet me go. And either way.... " An unhurried voice said-- "Kirylo Sidorovitch. " Razumov at the door turned his head. "To retire, " he repeated. "Where to?" asked Councillor Mikulin softly. PART SECOND I In the conduct of an invented story there are, no doubt, certainproprieties to be observed for the sake of clearness and effect. A manof imagination, however inexperienced in the art of narrative, has hisinstinct to guide him in the choice of his words, and in the developmentof the action. A grain of talent excuses many mistakes. But this is nota work of imagination; I have no talent; my excuse for this undertakinglies not in its art, but in its artlessness. Aware of my limitations andstrong in the sincerity of my purpose, I would not try (were I able) toinvent anything. I push my scruples so far that I would not even inventa transition. Dropping then Mr. Razumov's record at the point where CouncillorMikulin's question "Where to?" comes in with the force of an insolubleproblem, I shall simply say that I made the acquaintance of these ladiesabout six months before that time. By "these ladies" I mean, of course, the mother and the sister of the unfortunate Haldin. By what arguments he had induced his mother to sell their littleproperty and go abroad for an indefinite time, I cannot tell precisely. I have an idea that Mrs. Haldin, at her son's wish, would have set fireto her house and emigrated to the moon without any sign of surprise orapprehension; and that Miss Haldin--Nathalie, caressingly Natalka--wouldhave given her assent to the scheme. Their proud devotion to that young man became clear to me in avery short time. Following his directions they went straight toSwitzerland--to Zurich--where they remained the best part of a year. From Zurich, which they did not like, they came to Geneva. A friendof mine in Lausanne, a lecturer in history at the University (he hadmarried a Russian lady, a distant connection of Mrs. Haldin's), wrote tome suggesting I should call on these ladies. It was a very kindlymeant business suggestion. Miss Haldin wished to go through a course ofreading the best English authors with a competent teacher. Mrs. Haldin received me very kindly. Her bad French, of which she wassmilingly conscious, did away with the formality of the first interview. She was a tall woman in a black silk dress. A wide brow, regularfeatures, and delicately cut lips, testified to her past beauty. She satupright in an easy chair and in a rather weak, gentle voice told me thather Natalka simply thirsted after knowledge. Her thin hands were lyingon her lap, her facial immobility had in it something monachal. "InRussia, " she went on, "all knowledge was tainted with falsehood. Notchemistry and all that, but education generally, " she explained. The Government corrupted the teaching for its own purposes. Both herchildren felt that. Her Natalka had obtained a diploma of a SuperiorSchool for Women and her son was a student at the St. PetersburgUniversity. He had a brilliant intellect, a most noble unselfish nature, and he was the oracle of his comrades. Early next year, she hoped hewould join them and they would then go to Italy together. In any othercountry but their own she would have been certain of a great future fora man with the extraordinary abilities and the lofty character of herson--but in Russia.... The young lady sitting by the window turned her head and said-- "Come, mother. Even with us things change with years. " Her voice was deep, almost harsh, and yet caressing in its harshness. She had a dark complexion, with red lips and a full figure. She gave theimpression of strong vitality. The old lady sighed. "You are both young--you two. It is easy for you to hope. But I, too, amnot hopeless. Indeed, how could I be with a son like this. " I addressed Miss Haldin, asking her what authors she wished to read. Shedirected upon me her grey eyes shaded by black eyelashes, and Ibecame aware, notwithstanding my years, how attractive physicallyher personality could be to a man capable of appreciating in a womansomething else than the mere grace of femininity. Her glance was asdirect and trustful as that of a young man yet unspoiled by the world'swise lessons. And it was intrepid, but in this intrepidity therewas nothing aggressive. A naive yet thoughtful assurance is a betterdefinition. She had reflected already (in Russia the young begin tothink early), but she had never known deception as yet because obviouslyshe had never yet fallen under the sway of passion. She was--to look ather was enough--very capable of being roused by an idea or simply bya person. At least, so I judged with I believe an unbiassed mind; forclearly my person could not be the person--and as to my ideas!... We became excellent friends in the course of our reading. It was verypleasant. Without fear of provoking a smile, I shall confess that Ibecame very much attached to that young girl. At the end of fourmonths I told her that now she could very well go on reading Englishby herself. It was time for the teacher to depart. My pupil lookedunpleasantly surprised. Mrs. Haldin, with her immobility of feature and kindly expression of theeyes, uttered from her armchair in her uncertain French, "_Mais l'amireviendra. _" And so it was settled. I returned--not four times a weekas before, but pretty frequently. In the autumn we made some shortexcursions together in company with other Russians. My friendship withthese ladies gave me a standing in the Russian colony which otherwise Icould not have had. The day I saw in the papers the news of Mr. De P---'s assassination--itwas a Sunday--I met the two ladies in the street and walked with themfor some distance. Mrs. Haldin wore a heavy grey cloak, I remember, over her black silk dress, and her fine eyes met mine with a very quietexpression. "We have been to the late service, " she said. "Natalka came with me. Her girl-friends, the students here, of course don't.... With us inRussia the church is so identified with oppression, that it seems almostnecessary when one wishes to be free in this life, to give up all hopeof a future existence. But I cannot give up praying for my son. " She added with a sort of stony grimness, colouring slightly, andin French, "_Ce n'est peut etre qu'une habitude. _" ("It may be onlyhabit. ") Miss Haldin was carrying the prayer-book. She did not glance at hermother. "You and Victor are both profound believers, " she said. I communicated to them the news from their country which I had justread in a cafe. For a whole minute we walked together fairly briskly insilence. Then Mrs. Haldin murmured-- "There will be more trouble, more persecutions for this. They may beeven closing the University. There is neither peace nor rest in Russiafor one but in the grave. "Yes. The way is hard, " came from the daughter, looking straight beforeher at the Chain of Jura covered with snow, like a white wall closingthe end of the street. "But concord is not so very far off. " "That is what my children think, " observed Mrs. Haldin to me. I did not conceal my feeling that these were strange times to talk ofconcord. Nathalie Haldin surprised me by saying, as if she had thoughtvery much on the subject, that the occidentals did not understand thesituation. She was very calm and youthfully superior. "You think it is a class conflict, or a conflict of interests, associal contests are with you in Europe. But it is not that at all. It issomething quite different. " "It is quite possible that I don't understand, " I admitted. That propensity of lifting every problem from the plane of theunderstandable by means of some sort of mystic expression, is veryRussian. I knew her well enough to have discovered her scorn for allthe practical forms of political liberty known to the western world. I suppose one must be a Russian to understand Russian simplicity, aterrible corroding simplicity in which mystic phrases clothe a naive andhopeless cynicism. I think sometimes that the psychological secretof the profound difference of that people consists in this, that theydetest life, the irremediable life of the earth as it is, whereaswe westerners cherish it with perhaps an equal exaggeration of itssentimental value. But this is a digression indeed.... I helped these ladies into the tramcar and they asked me to call inthe afternoon. At least Mrs. Haldin asked me as she climbed up, and herNatalka smiled down at the dense westerner indulgently from the rearplatform of the moving car. The light of the clear wintry forenoon wassoftened in her grey eyes. Mr. Razumov's record, like the open book of fate, revives for me thememory of that day as something startlingly pitiless in its freedom fromall forebodings. Victor Haldin was still with the living, but with theliving whose only contact with life is the expectation of death. He musthave been already referring to the last of his earthly affections, thehours of that obstinate silence, which for him was to be prolonged intoeternity. That afternoon the ladies entertained a good many of theircompatriots--more than was usual for them to receive at one time; andthe drawing-room on the ground floor of a large house on the Boulevarddes Philosophes was very much crowded. I outstayed everybody; and when I rose Miss Haldin stood up too. I tookher hand and was moved to revert to that morning's conversation in thestreet. "Admitting that we occidentals do not understand the character ofyour... " I began. It was as if she had been prepared for me by some mysteriousfore-knowledge. She checked me gently-- "Their impulses--their... " she sought the proper expression and foundit, but in French... "their _mouvements d'ame. _" Her voice was not much above a whisper. "Very well, " I said. "But still we are looking at a conflict. You sayit is not a conflict of classes and not a conflict of interests. SupposeI admitted that. Are antagonistic ideas then to be reconciled moreeasily--can they be cemented with blood and violence into that concordwhich you proclaim to be so near?" She looked at me searchingly with her clear grey eyes, without answeringmy reasonable question--my obvious, my unanswerable question. "It is inconceivable, " I added, with something like annoyance. "Everything is inconceivable, " she said. "The whole world isinconceivable to the strict logic of ideas. And yet the world exists toour senses, and we exist in it. There must be a necessity superior toour conceptions. It is a very miserable and a very false thing to belongto the majority. We Russians shall find some better form of nationalfreedom than an artificial conflict of parties--which is wrong becauseit is a conflict and contemptible because it is artificial. It is leftfor us Russians to discover a better way. " Mrs. Haldin had been looking out of the window. She turned upon me thealmost lifeless beauty of her face, and the living benign glance of herbig dark eyes. "That's what my children think, " she declared. "I suppose, " I addressed Miss Haldin, "that you will be shocked if Itell you that I haven't understood--I won't say a single word; I'veunderstood all the words.... But what can be this era of disembodiedconcord you are looking forward to. Life is a thing of form. It has itsplastic shape and a definite intellectual aspect. The most idealisticconceptions of love and forbearance must be clothed in flesh as it werebefore they can be made understandable. " I took my leave of Mrs. Haldin, whose beautiful lips never stirred. Shesmiled with her eyes only. Nathalie Haldin went with me as far as thedoor, very amiable. "Mother imagines that I am the slavish echo of my brother Victor. Itis not so. He understands me better than I can understand him. When hejoins us and you come to know him you will see what an exceptional soulit is. " She paused. "He is not a strong man in the conventional sense, you know, " she added. "But his character is without a flaw. " "I believe that it will not be difficult for me to make friends withyour brother Victor. " "Don't expect to understand him quite, " she said, a little maliciously. "He is not at all--at all--western at bottom. " And on this unnecessary warning I left the room with another bow inthe doorway to Mrs. Haldin in her armchair by the window. The shadow ofautocracy all unperceived by me had already fallen upon the Boulevarddes Philosophes, in the free, independent and democratic city ofGeneva, where there is a quarter called "La Petite Russie. " Whenever twoRussians come together, the shadow of autocracy is with them, tingingtheir thoughts, their views, their most intimate feelings, their privatelife, their public utterances--haunting the secret of their silences. What struck me next in the course of a week or so was the silence ofthese ladies. I used to meet them walking in the public garden near theUniversity. They greeted me with their usual friendliness, but I couldnot help noticing their taciturnity. By that time it was generally knownthat the assassin of M. De P--- had been caught, judged, and executed. So much had been declared officially to the news agencies. But for theworld at large he remained anonymous. The official secrecy had withheldhis name from the public. I really cannot imagine for what reason. One day I saw Miss Haldin walking alone in the main valley of theBastions under the naked trees. "Mother is not very well, " she explained. As Mrs. Haldin had, it seemed, never had a day's illness in her life, this indisposition was disquieting. It was nothing definite, too. "I think she is fretting because we have not heard from my brother forrather a long time. " "No news--good news, " I said cheerfully, and we began to walk slowlyside by side. "Not in Russia, " she breathed out so low that I only just caught thewords. I looked at her with more attention. "You too are anxious?" She admitted after a moment of hesitation that she was. "It is really such a long time since we heard.... " And before I could offer the usual banal suggestions she confided in me. "Oh! But it is much worse than that. I wrote to a family we know inPetersburg. They had not seen him for more than a month. They thoughthe was already with us. They were even offended a little that he shouldhave left Petersburg without calling on them. The husband of the ladywent at once to his lodgings. Victor had left there and they did notknow his address. " I remember her catching her breath rather pitifully. Her brother had notbeen seen at lectures for a very long time either. He only turned up nowand then at the University gate to ask the porter for his letters. Andthe gentleman friend was told that the student Haldin did not come toclaim the last two letters for him. But the police came to inquire ifthe student Haldin ever received any correspondence at the Universityand took them away. "My two last letters, " she said. We faced each other. A few snow-flakes fluttered under the naked boughs. The sky was dark. "What do you think could have happened?" I asked. Her shoulders moved slightly. "One can never tell--in Russia. " I saw then the shadow of autocracy lying upon Russian lives in theirsubmission or their revolt. I saw it touch her handsome open facenestled in a fur collar and darken her clear eyes that shone upon mebrilliantly grey in the murky light of a beclouded, inclement afternoon. "Let us move on, " she said. "It is cold standing--to-day. " She shuddered a little and stamped her little feet. We moved briskly tothe end of the alley and back to the great gates of the garden. "Have you told your mother?" I ventured to ask. "No. Not yet. I came out to walk off the impression of this letter. " I heard a rustle of paper somewhere. It came from her muff. She had theletter with her in there. "What is it that you are afraid of?" I asked. To us Europeans of the West, all ideas of political plots andconspiracies seem childish, crude inventions for the theatre or a novel. I did not like to be more definite in my inquiry. "For us--for my mother specially, what I am afraid of is incertitude. People do disappear. Yes, they do disappear. I leave you to imagine whatit is--the cruelty of the dumb weeks--months--years! This friend of ourshas abandoned his inquiries when he heard of the police getting hold ofthe letters. I suppose he was afraid of compromising himself. He has awife and children--and why should he, after all.... Moreover, he iswithout influential connections and not rich. What could he do?... Yes, I am afraid of silence--for my poor mother. She won't be ableto bear it. For my brother I am afraid of... " she became almostindistinct, "of anything. " We were now near the gate opposite the theatre. She raised her voice. "But lost people do turn up even in Russia. Do you know what my lasthope is? Perhaps the next thing we know, we shall see him walking intoour rooms. " I raised my hat and she passed out of the gardens, graceful and strong, after a slight movement of the head to me, her hands in the muff, crumpling the cruel Petersburg letter. On returning home I opened the newspaper I receive from London, andglancing down the correspondence from Russia--not the telegrams butthe correspondence--the first thing that caught my eye was the nameof Haldin. Mr. De P---'s death was no longer an actuality, but theenterprising correspondent was proud of having ferreted out someunofficial information about that fact of modern history. He had gothold of Haldin's name, and had picked up the story of the midnightarrest in the street. But the sensation from a journalistic point ofview was already well in the past. He did not allot to it more thantwenty lines out of a full column. It was quite enough to give me asleepless night. I perceived that it would have been a sort of treasonto let Miss Haldin come without preparation upon that journalisticdiscovery which would infallibly be reproduced on the morrow by Frenchand Swiss newspapers. I had a very bad time of it till the morning, wakeful with nervous worry and night-marish with the feeling ofbeing mixed up with something theatrical and morbidly affected. Theincongruity of such a complication in those two women's lives wassensible to me all night in the form of absolute anguish. It seemed dueto their refined simplicity that it should remain concealed from themfor ever. Arriving at an unconscionably early hour at the door of theirapartment, I felt as if I were about to commit an act of vandalism.... The middle-aged servant woman led me into the drawing-room where therewas a duster on a chair and a broom leaning against the centre table. The motes danced in the sunshine; I regretted I had not written a letterinstead of coming myself, and was thankful for the brightness of theday. Miss Haldin in a plain black dress came lightly out of her mother'sroom with a fixed uncertain smile on her lips. I pulled the paper out of my pocket. I did not imagine that a numberof the _Standard_ could have the effect of Medusa's head. Her face wentstony in a moment--her eyes--her limbs. The most terrible thing was thatbeing stony she remained alive. One was conscious of her palpitatingheart. I hope she forgave me the delay of my clumsy circumlocution. Itwas not very prolonged; she could not have kept so still from head tofoot for more than a second or two; and then I heard her draw a breath. As if the shock had paralysed her moral resistance, and affected thefirmness of her muscles, the contours of her face seemed to have givenway. She was frightfully altered. She looked aged--ruined. But only fora moment. She said with decision-- "I am going to tell my mother at once. " "Would that be safe in her state?" I objected. "What can be worse than the state she has been in for the last month?We understand this in another way. The crime is not at his door. Don'timagine I am defending him before you. " She went to the bedroom door, then came back to ask me in a low murmurnot to go till she returned. For twenty interminable minutes not a soundreached me. At last Miss Haldin came out and walked across the room withher quick light step. When she reached the armchair she dropped into itheavily as if completely exhausted. Mrs. Haldin, she told me, had not shed a tear. She was sitting up inbed, and her immobility, her silence, were very alarming. At last shelay down gently and had motioned her daughter away. "She will call me in presently, " added Miss Haldin. "I left a bell nearthe bed. " I confess that my very real sympathy had no standpoint. The Westernreaders for whom this story is written will understand what I mean. Itwas, if I may say so, the want of experience. Death is a remorselessspoliator. The anguish of irreparable loss is familiar to us all. Thereis no life so lonely as to be safe against that experience. But thegrief I had brought to these two ladies had gruesome associations. Ithad the associations of bombs and gallows--a lurid, Russian colouringwhich made the complexion of my sympathy uncertain. I was grateful to Miss Haldin for not embarrassing me by an outwarddisplay of deep feeling. I admired her for that wonderful commandover herself, even while I was a little frightened at it. It was thestillness of a great tension. What if it should suddenly snap? Even thedoor of Mrs. Haldin's room, with the old mother alone in there, had arather awful aspect. Nathalie Haldin murmured sadly-- "I suppose you are wondering what my feelings are?" Essentially that was true. It was that very wonder which unsettled mysympathy of a dense Occidental. I could get hold of nothing but of somecommonplace phrases, those futile phrases that give the measure of ourimpotence before each other's trials I mumbled something to the effectthat, for the young, life held its hopes and compensations. It heldduties too--but of that I was certain it was not necessary to remindher. She had a handkerchief in her hands and pulled at it nervously. "I am not likely to forget my mother, " she said. "We used to be three. Now we are two--two women. She's not so very old. She may live quite along time yet. What have we to look for in the future? For what hopeand what consolation?" "You must take a wider view, " I said resolutely, thinking that with thisexceptional creature this was the right note to strike. She looked atme steadily for a moment, and then the tears she had been keeping downflowed unrestrained. She jumped up and stood in the window with her backto me. I slipped away without attempting even to approach her. Next day I wastold at the door that Mrs. Haldin was better. The middle-aged servantremarked that a lot of people--Russians--had called that day, but MissHaldin bad not seen anybody. A fortnight later, when making my dailycall, I was asked in and found Mrs. Haldin sitting in her usual place bythe window. At first one would have thought that nothing was changed. I sawacross the room the familiar profile, a little sharper in outlineand overspread by a uniform pallor as might have been expected in aninvalid. But no disease could have accounted for the change in her blackeyes, smiling no longer with gentle irony. She raised them as she gaveme her hand. I observed the three weeks' old number of the _Standard_folded with the correspondence from Russia uppermost, lying on a littletable by the side of the armchair. Mrs. Haldin's voice was startlinglyweak and colourless. Her first words to me framed a question. "Has there been anything more in papers?" I released her long emaciated hand, shook my head negatively, and satdown. "The English press is wonderful. Nothing can be kept secret from it, and all the world must hear. Only our Russian news is not always easy tounderstand. Not always easy.... But English mothers do not look fornews like that.... " She laid her hand on the newspaper and took it away again. I said-- "We too have had tragic times in our history. " "A long time ago. A very long time ago. " "Yes. " "There are nations that have made their bargain with fate, " said MissHaldin, who had approached us. "We need not envy them. " "Why this scorn?" I asked gently. "It may be that our bargain was nota very lofty one. But the terms men and nations obtain from Fate arehallowed by the price. " Mrs. Haldin turned her head away and looked out of the window for atime, with that new, sombre, extinct gaze of her sunken eyes which socompletely made another woman of her. "That Englishman, this correspondent, " she addressed me suddenly, "doyou think it is possible that he knew my son?" To this strange question I could only say that it was possible ofcourse. She saw my surprise. "If one knew what sort of man he was one could perhaps write to him, "she murmured. "Mother thinks, " explained Miss Haldin, standing between us, with onehand resting on the back of my chair, "that my poor brother perhaps didnot try to save himself. " I looked up at Miss Haldin in sympathetic consternation, but Miss Haldinwas looking down calmly at her mother. The latter said-- "We do not know the address of any of his friends. Indeed, we knownothing of his Petersburg comrades. He had a multitude of young friends, only he never spoke much of them. One could guess that they were hisdisciples and that they idolized him. But he was so modest. One wouldthink that with so many devoted.... " She averted her head again and looked down the Boulevard desPhilosophes, a singularly arid and dusty thoroughfare, where nothingcould be seen at the moment but two dogs, a little girl in a pinaforehopping on one leg, and in the distance a workman wheeling a bicycle. "Even amongst the Apostles of Christ there was found a Judas, " shewhispered as if to herself, but with the evident intention to be heardby me. The Russian visitors assembled in little knots, conversed amongstthemselves meantime, in low murmurs, and with brief glances in ourdirection. It was a great contrast to the usual loud volubility of thesegatherings. Miss Haldin followed me into the ante-room. "People will come, " she said. "We cannot shut the door in their faces. " While I was putting on my overcoat she began to talk to me of hermother. Poor Mrs. Haldin was fretting after more news. She wanted to goon hearing about her unfortunate son. She could not make up her mind toabandon him quietly to the dumb unknown. She would persist in pursuinghim in there through the long days of motionless silence face to facewith the empty Boulevard des Philosophes. She could not understand whyhe had not escaped--as so many other revolutionists and conspiratorshad managed to escape in other instances of that kind. It was reallyinconceivable that the means of secret revolutionary organisationsshould have failed so inexcusably to preserve her son. But in realitythe inconceivable that staggered her mind was nothing but the cruelaudacity of Death passing over her head to strike at that young andprecious heart. Miss Haldin mechanically, with an absorbed look, handed me my hat. Iunderstood from her that the poor woman was possessed by the sombre andsimple idea that her son must have perished because he did not wantto be saved. It could not have been that he despaired of his country'sfuture. That was impossible. Was it possible that his mother and sisterhad not known how to merit his confidence; and that, after having donewhat he was compelled to do, his spirit became crushed by an intolerabledoubt, his mind distracted by a sudden mistrust. I was very much shocked by this piece of ingenuity. "Our three lives were like that!" Miss Haldin twined the fingers of bothher hands together in demonstration, then separated them slowly, lookingstraight into my face. "That's what poor mother found to torment herselfand me with, for all the years to come, " added the strange girl. At thatmoment her indefinable charm was revealed to me in the conjunction ofpassion and stoicism. I imagined what her life was likely to be by theside of Mrs. Haldin's terrible immobility, inhabited by that fixed idea. But my concern was reduced to silence by my ignorance of her modesof feeling. Difference of nationality is a terrible obstacle for ourcomplex Western natures. But Miss Haldin probably was too simple tosuspect my embarrassment. She did not wait for me to say anything, butas if reading my thoughts on my face she went on courageously-- "At first poor mother went numb, as our peasants say; then she began tothink and she will go on now thinking and thinking in that unfortunatestrain. You see yourself how cruel that is.... " I never spoke with greater sincerity than when I agreed with her that itwould be deplorable in the highest degree. She took an anxious breath. "But all these strange details in the English paper, " she exclaimedsuddenly. "What is the meaning of them? I suppose they are true? But isit not terrible that my poor brother should be caught wandering alone, as if in despair, about the streets at night.... " We stood so close to each other in the dark anteroom that I could seeher biting her lower lip to suppress a dry sob. After a short pause shesaid-- "I suggested to mother that he may have been betrayed by some falsefriend or simply by some cowardly creature. It may be easier for her tobelieve that. " I understood now the poor woman's whispered allusion to Judas. "It may be easier, " I admitted, admiring inwardly the directness and thesubtlety of the girl's outlook. She was dealing with life as it wasmade for her by the political conditions of her country. She faced cruelrealities, not morbid imaginings of her own making. I could not defendmyself from a certain feeling of respect when she added simply-- "Time they say can soften every sort of bitterness. But I cannot believethat it has any power over remorse. It is better that mother shouldthink some person guilty of Victor's death, than that she should connectit with a weakness of her son or a shortcoming of her own. " "But you, yourself, don't suppose that.... " I began. She compressed her lips and shook her head. She harboured no evilthoughts against any one, she declared--and perhaps nothing thathappened was unnecessary. On these words, pronounced low and soundingmysterious in the half obscurity of the ante-room, we parted with anexpressive and warm handshake. The grip of her strong, shapely hand hada seductive frankness, a sort of exquisite virility. I do not know whyshe should have felt so friendly to me. It may be that she thought Iunderstood her much better than I was able to do. The most preciseof her sayings seemed always to me to have enigmatical prolongationsvanishing somewhere beyond my reach. I am reduced to suppose that sheappreciated my attention and my silence. The attention she could see wasquite sincere, so that the silence could not be suspected of coldness. It seemed to satisfy her. And it is to be noted that if she confidedin me it was clearly not with the expectation of receiving advice, forwhich, indeed she never asked. II Our daily relations were interrupted at this period for something like afortnight. I had to absent myself unexpectedly from Geneva. On my returnI lost no time in directing my steps up the Boulevard des Philosophes. Through the open door of the drawing-room I was annoyed to hear avisitor holding forth steadily in an unctuous deep voice. Mrs. Haldin's armchair by the window stood empty. On the sofa, NathalieHaldin raised her charming grey eyes in a glance of greeting accompaniedby the merest hint of a welcoming smile. But she made no movement. Withher strong white hands lying inverted in the lap of her mourning dressshe faced a man who presented to me a robust back covered with blackbroadcloth, and well in keeping with the deep voice. He turned his headsharply over his shoulder, but only for a moment. "Ah! your English friend. I know. I know. That's nothing. " He wore spectacles with smoked glasses, a tall silk hat stood on thefloor by the side of his chair. Flourishing slightly a big soft hand hewent on with his discourse, precipitating his delivery a little more. "I have never changed the faith I held while wandering in the forestsand bogs of Siberia. It sustained me then--it sustains me now. The greatPowers of Europe are bound to disappear--and the cause of their collapsewill be very simple. They will exhaust themselves struggling againsttheir proletariat. In Russia it is different. In Russia we have noclasses to combat each other, one holding the power of wealth, andthe other mighty with the strength of numbers. We have only an uncleanbureaucracy in the face of a people as great and as incorruptible asthe ocean. No, we have no classes. But we have the Russian woman. Theadmirable Russian woman! I receive most remarkable letters signed bywomen. So elevated in tone, so courageous, breathing such a noble ardourof service! The greatest part of our hopes rests on women. I beholdtheir thirst for knowledge. It is admirable. Look how they absorb, howthey are making it their own. It is miraculous. But what is knowledge?... I understand that you have not been studying anythingespecially--medicine for instance. No? That's right. Had I been honouredby being asked to advise you on the use of your time when you arrivedhere I would have been strongly opposed to such a course. Knowledge initself is mere dross. " He had one of those bearded Russian faces without shape, a mereappearance of flesh and hair with not a single feature having any sortof character. His eyes being hidden by the dark glasses there was anutter absence of all expression. I knew him by sight. He was a Russianrefugee of mark. All Geneva knew his burly black-coated figure. At onetime all Europe was aware of the story of his life written by himselfand translated into seven or more languages. In his youth he had ledan idle, dissolute life. Then a society girl he was about to marry diedsuddenly and thereupon he abandoned the world of fashion, and beganto conspire in a spirit of repentance, and, after that, his nativeautocracy took good care that the usual things should happen to him. He was imprisoned in fortresses, beaten within an inch of his life, andcondemned to work in mines, with common criminals. The great success ofhis book, however, was the chain. I do not remember now the details of the weight and length of thefetters riveted on his limbs by an "Administrative" order, but it was inthe number of pounds and the thickness of links an appalling assertionof the divine right of autocracy. Appalling and futile too, because thisbig man managed to carry off that simple engine of government with himinto the woods. The sensational clink of these fetters is heard allthrough the chapters describing his escape--a subject of wonder to twocontinents. He had begun by concealing himself successfully fromhis guard in a hole on a river bank. It was the end of the day; withinfinite labour he managed to free one of his legs. Meantime nightfell. He was going to begin on his other leg when he was overtaken by aterrible misfortune. He dropped his file. All this is precise yet symbolic; and the file had its pathetic history. It was given to him unexpectedly one evening, by a quiet, pale-facedgirl. The poor creature had come out to the mines to join one of hisfellow convicts, a delicate young man, a mechanic and a social democrat, with broad cheekbones and large staring eyes. She had worked her wayacross half Russia and nearly the whole of Siberia to be near him, and, as it seems, with the hope of helping him to escape. But she arrived toolate. Her lover had died only a week before. Through that obscure episode, as he says, in the history of ideas inRussia, the file came into his hands, and inspired him with an ardentresolution to regain his liberty. When it slipped through his fingers itwas as if it had gone straight into the earth. He could by no manner ofmeans put his hand on it again in the dark. He groped systematicallyin the loose earth, in the mud, in the water; the night was passingmeantime, the precious night on which he counted to get away into theforests, his only chance of escape. For a moment he was tempted bydespair to give up; but recalling the quiet, sad face of the heroicgirl, he felt profoundly ashamed of his weakness. She had selected himfor the gift of liberty and he must show himself worthy of the favourconferred by her feminine, indomitable soul. It appeared to be a sacredtrust. To fail would have been a sort of treason against the sacrednessof self-sacrifice and womanly love. There are in his book whole pages of self-analysis whence emerges likea white figure from a dark confused sea the conviction of woman'sspiritual superiority--his new faith confessed since in several volumes. His first tribute to it, the great act of his conversion, was hisextraordinary existence in the endless forests of the Okhotsk Province, with the loose end of the chain wound about his waist. A strip torn offhis convict shirt secured the end firmly. Other strips fastened it atintervals up his left leg to deaden the clanking and to prevent theslack links from getting hooked in the bushes. He became very fierce. He developed an unsuspected genius for the arts of a wild and huntedexistence. He learned to creep into villages without betraying hispresence by anything more than an occasional faint jingle. He broke intoouthouses with an axe he managed to purloin in a wood-cutters' camp. Inthe deserted tracts of country he lived on wild berries and hunted forhoney. His clothing dropped off him gradually. His naked tawny figureglimpsed vaguely through the bushes with a cloud of mosquitoes and flieshovering about the shaggy head, spread tales of terror through wholedistricts. His temper grew savage as the days went by, and he wasglad to discover that that there was so much of a brute in him. He hadnothing else to put his trust in. For it was as though there had beentwo human beings indissolubly joined in that enterprise. The civilizedman, the enthusiast of advanced humanitarian ideals thirsting for thetriumph of spiritual love and political liberty; and the stealthy, primeval savage, pitilessly cunning in the preservation of his freedomfrom day to day, like a tracked wild beast. The wild beast was making its way instinctively eastward to the Pacificcoast, and the civilised humanitarian in fearful anxious dependencewatched the proceedings with awe. Through all these weeks he could nevermake up his mind to appeal to human compassion. In the wary primevalsavage this shyness might have been natural, but the other too, thecivilized creature, the thinker, the escaping "political" had developedan absurd form of morbid pessimism, a form of temporary insanity, originating perhaps in the physical worry and discomfort of the chain. These links, he fancied, made him odious to the rest of mankind. Itwas a repugnant and suggestive load. Nobody could feel any pity at thedisgusting sight of a man escaping with a broken chain. His imaginationbecame affected by his fetters in a precise, matter-of-fact manner. It seemed to him impossible that people could resist the temptation offastening the loose end to a staple in the wall while they went for thenearest police official. Crouching in holes or hidden in thickets, hehad tried to read the faces of unsuspecting free settlers working in theclearings or passing along the paths within a foot or two of hiseyes. His feeling was that no man on earth could be trusted with thetemptation of the chain. One day, however, he chanced to come upon a solitary woman. It was on anopen slope of rough grass outside the forest. She sat on the bank of anarrow stream; she had a red handkerchief on her head and a small basketwas lying on the ground near her hand. At a little distance could beseen a cluster of log cabins, with a water-mill over a dammed poolshaded by birch trees and looking bright as glass in the twilight. Heapproached her silently, his hatchet stuck in his iron belt, a thickcudgel in his hand; there were leaves and bits of twig in his tangledhair, in his matted beard; bunches of rags he had wound round the linksfluttered from his waist. A faint clink of his fetters made the womanturn her head. Too terrified by this savage apparition to jump up oreven to scream, she was yet too stout-hearted to faint.... Expectingnothing less than to be murdered on the spot she covered her eyes withher hands to avoid the sight of the descending axe. When at last shefound courage to look again, she saw the shaggy wild man sitting onthe bank six feet away from her. His thin, sinewy arms hugged his nakedlegs; the long beard covered the knees on which he rested his chin; allthese clasped, folded limbs, the bare shoulders, the wild head with redstaring eyes, shook and trembled violently while the bestial creaturewas making efforts to speak. It was six weeks since he had heard thesound of his own voice. It seemed as though he had lost the facultyof speech. He had become a dumb and despairing brute, till the woman'ssudden, unexpected cry of profound pity, the insight of her femininecompassion discovering the complex misery of the man under theterrifying aspect of the monster, restored him to the ranks of humanity. This point of view is presented in his book, with a very effectiveeloquence. She ended, he says, by shedding tears over him, sacred, redeeming tears, while he also wept with joy in the manner of aconverted sinner. Directing him to hide in the bushes and wait patiently(a police patrol was expected in the Settlement) she went away towardsthe houses, promising to return at night. As if providentially appointed to be the newly wedded wife of thevillage blacksmith, the woman persuaded her husband to come out withher, bringing some tools of his trade, a hammer, a chisel, a smallanvil.... "My fetters"--the book says--"were struck off on the banksof the stream, in the starlight of a calm night by an athletic, taciturnyoung man of the people, kneeling at my feet, while the woman like aliberating genius stood by with clasped hands. " Obviously a symboliccouple. At the same time they furnished his regained humanity with somedecent clothing, and put heart into the new man by the information thatthe seacoast of the Pacific was only a very few miles away. It could beseen, in fact, from the top of the next ridge.... The rest of his escape does not lend itself to mystic treatment andsymbolic interpretation. He ended by finding his way to the West bythe Suez Canal route in the usual manner. Reaching the shores of SouthEurope he sat down to write his autobiography--the great literarysuccess of its year. This book was followed by other books written withthe declared purpose of elevating humanity. In these works he preachedgenerally the cult of the woman. For his own part he practised it underthe rites of special devotion to the transcendental merits of a certainMadame de S--, a lady of advanced views, no longer very young, onceupon a time the intriguing wife of a now dead and forgotten diplomat. Her loud pretensions to be one of the leaders of modern thought and ofmodern sentiment, she sheltered (like Voltaire and Mme. De Stael) on therepublican territory of Geneva. Driving through the streets in her biglandau she exhibited to the indifference of the natives and the staresof the tourists a long-waisted, youthful figure of hieratic stiffness, with a pair of big gleaming eyes, rolling restlessly behind a short veilof black lace, which, coming down no further than her vividly red lips, resembled a mask. Usually the "heroic fugitive" (this name was bestowedupon him in a review of the English edition of his book)--the "heroicfugitive" accompanied her, sitting, portentously bearded and darklybespectacled, not by her side, but opposite her, with his back to thehorses. Thus, facing each other, with no one else in the roomy carriage, their airings suggested a conscious public manifestation. Or it may havebeen unconscious. Russian simplicity often marches innocently on theedge of cynicism for some lofty purpose. But it is a vain enterprise forsophisticated Europe to try and understand these doings. Considering theair of gravity extending even to the physiognomy of the coachman and theaction of the showy horses, this quaint display might have possesseda mystic significance, but to the corrupt frivolity of a Western mind, like my own, it seemed hardly decent. However, it is not becoming for an obscure teacher of languages tocriticize a "heroic fugitive" of worldwide celebrity. I was aware fromhearsay that he was an industrious busy-body, hunting up his compatriotsin hotels, in private lodgings, and--I was told--conferring upon themthe honour of his notice in public gardens when a suitable openingpresented itself. I was under the impression that after a visit ortwo, several months before, he had given up the ladies Haldin--no doubtreluctantly, for there could be no question of his being a determinedperson. It was perhaps to be expected that he should reappear again onthis terrible occasion, as a Russian and a revolutionist, to say theright thing, to strike the true, perhaps a comforting, note. But I didnot like to see him sitting there. I trust that an unbecoming jealousyof my privileged position had nothing to do with it. I made no claim toa special standing for my silent friendship. Removed by the differenceof age and nationality as if into the sphere of another existence, Iproduced, even upon myself, the effect of a dumb helpless ghost, of ananxious immaterial thing that could only hover about without the powerto protect or guide by as much as a whisper. Since Miss Haldin with hersure instinct had refrained from introducing me to the burly celebrity, I would have retired quietly and returned later on, had I not met apeculiar expression in her eyes which I interpreted as a request tostay, with the view, perhaps, of shortening an unwelcome visit. He picked up his hat, but only to deposit it on his knees. "We shall meet again, Natalia Victorovna. To-day I have called onlyto mark those feelings towards your honoured mother and yourself, the nature of which you cannot doubt. I needed no urging, butEleanor--Madame de S-- herself has in a way sent me. She extends to youthe hand of feminine fellowship. There is positively in all the rangeof human sentiments no joy and no sorrow that woman cannot understand, elevate, and spiritualize by her interpretation. That young man newlyarrived from St. Petersburg, I have mentioned to you, is already underthe charm. " At this point Miss Haldin got up abruptly. I was glad. He did notevidently expect anything so decisive and, at first, throwing his headback, he tilted up his dark glasses with bland curiosity. At last, recollecting himself, he stood up hastily, seizing his hat off his kneeswith great adroitness. "How is it, Natalia Victorovna, that you have kept aloof so long, fromwhat after all is--let disparaging tongues say what they like--a uniquecentre of intellectual freedom and of effort to shape a high conceptionof our future? In the case of your honoured mother I understand in ameasure. At her age new ideas--new faces are not perhaps.... But you!Was it mistrust--or indifference? You must come out of your reserve. We Russians have no right to be reserved with each other. In ourcircumstances it is almost a crime against humanity. The luxury ofprivate grief is not for us. Nowadays the devil is not combated byprayers and fasting. And what is fasting after all but starvation. Youmust not starve yourself, Natalia Victorovna. Strength is what we want. Spiritual strength, I mean. As to the other kind, what could withstandus Russians if we only put it forth? Sin is different in our day, andthe way of salvation for pure souls is different too. It is no longer tobe found in monasteries but in the world, in the... " The deep sound seemed to rise from under the floor, and one felt steepedin it to the lips. Miss Haldin's interruption resembled the effort ofa drowning person to keep above water. She struck in with an accent ofimpatience-- "But, Peter Ivanovitch, I don't mean to retire into a monastery. Whowould look for salvation there?" "I spoke figuratively, " he boomed. "Well, then, I am speaking figuratively too. But sorrow is sorrow andpain is pain in the old way. They make their demands upon people. Onehas got to face them the best way one can. I know that the blow whichhas fallen upon us so unexpectedly is only an episode in the fate of apeople. You may rest assured that I don't forget that. But just nowI have to think of my mother. How can you expect me to leave her toherself... ?" "That is putting it in a very crude way, " he protested in his greateffortless voice. Miss Haldin did not wait for the vibration to die out. "And run about visiting amongst a lot of strange people. The idea isdistasteful for me; and I do not know what else you may mean?" He towered before her, enormous, deferential, cropped as close as aconvict and this big pinkish poll evoked for me the vision of a wildhead with matted locks peering through parted bushes, glimpses of naked, tawny limbs slinking behind the masses of sodden foliage under a cloudof flies and mosquitoes. It was an involuntary tribute to the vigourof his writing. Nobody could doubt that he had wandered in Siberianforests, naked and girt with a chain. The black broadcloth coat investedhis person with a character of austere decency--something recalling amissionary. "Do you know what I want, Natalia Victorovna?" he uttered solemnly. "Iwant you to be a fanatic. " "A fanatic?" "Yes. Faith alone won't do. " His voice dropped to a still lower tone. He raised for a moment onethick arm; the other remained hanging down against his thigh, with thefragile silk hat at the end. "I shall tell you now something which I entreat you to ponderover carefully. Listen, we need a force that would move heaven andearth--nothing less. " The profound, subterranean note of this "nothing less" made one shudder, almost, like the deep muttering of wind in the pipes of an organ. "And are we to find that force in the salon of Madame de S--? Excuseme, Peter Ivanovitch, if I permit myself to doubt it. Is not that lady awoman of the great world, an aristocrat?" "Prejudice!" he cried. "You astonish me. And suppose she was all that!She is also a woman of flesh and blood. There is always something toweigh down the spiritual side in all of us. But to make of it a reproachis what I did not expect from you. No! I did not expect that. One wouldthink you have listened to some malevolent scandal. " "I have heard no gossip, I assure you. In our province how could we? Butthe world speaks of her. What can there be in common in a lady of thatsort and an obscure country girl like me?" "She is a perpetual manifestation of a noble and peerless spirit, "he broke in. "Her charm--no, I shall not speak of her charm. But, of course, everybody who approaches her falls under the spell.... Contradictions vanish, trouble falls away from one.... Unless Iam mistaken--but I never make a mistake in spiritual matters--you aretroubled in your soul, Natalia Victorovna. " Miss Haldin's clear eyes looked straight at his soft enormous face;I received the impression that behind these dark spectacles of his hecould be as impudent as he chose. "Only the other evening walking back to town from Chateau Borel with ourlatest interesting arrival from Petersburg, I could notice the powerfulsoothing influence--I may say reconciling influence.... There he was, all these kilometres along the shores of the lake, silent, like a manwho has been shown the way of peace. I could feel the leaven working inhis soul, you understand. For one thing he listened to me patiently. I myself was inspired that evening by the firm and exquisite geniusof Eleanor--Madame de S--, you know. It was a full moon and I couldobserve his face. I cannot be deceived.... " Miss Haldin, looking down, seemed to hesitate. "Well! I will think of what you said, Peter Ivanovitch. I shall try tocall as soon as I can leave mother for an hour or two safely. " Coldly as these words were said I was amazed at the concession. Hesnatched her right hand with such fervour that I thought he was goingto press it to his lips or his breast. But he only held it by thefinger-tips in his great paw and shook it a little up and down while hedelivered his last volley of words. "That's right. That's right. I haven't obtained your full confidenceas yet, Natalia Victorovna, but that will come. All in good time. Thesister of Viktor Haldin cannot be without importance.... It's simplyimpossible. And no woman can remain sitting on the steps. Flowers, tears, applause--that has had its time; it's a mediaeval conception. Thearena, the arena itself is the place for women!" He relinquished her hand with a flourish, as if giving it to her for agift, and remained still, his head bowed in dignified submission beforeher femininity. "The arena!... You must descend into the arena, Natalia. " He made one step backwards, inclined his enormous body, and was goneswiftly. The door fell to behind him. But immediately the powerfulresonance of his voice was heard addressing in the ante-room themiddle-aged servant woman who was letting him out. Whether he exhortedher too to descend into the arena I cannot tell. The thing sounded likea lecture, and the slight crash of the outer door cut it short suddenly. III "We remained looking at each other for a time. " "Do you know who he is?" Miss Haldin, coming forward, put this question to me in English. I took her offered hand. "Everybody knows. He is a revolutionary feminist, a great writer, ifyou like, and--how shall I say it--the--the familiar guest of Madame deS--'s mystic revolutionary salon. " Miss Haldin passed her hand over her forehead. "You know, he was with me for more than an hour before you came in. Iwas so glad mother was lying down. She has many nights without sleep, and then sometimes in the middle of the day she gets a rest of severalhours. It is sheer exhaustion--but still, I am thankful.... If itwere not for these intervals.... " She looked at me and, with that extraordinary penetration which used todisconcert me, shook her head. "No. She would not go mad. " "My dear young lady, " I cried, by way of protest, the more shockedbecause in my heart I was far from thinking Mrs. Haldin quite sane. "You don't know what a fine, lucid intellect mother had, " continuedNathalie Haldin, with her calm, clear-eyed simplicity, which seemed tome always to have a quality of heroism. "I am sure.... " I murmured. "I darkened mother's room and came out here. I've wanted for so long tothink quietly. " She paused, then, without giving any sign of distress, added, "It's sodifficult, " and looked at me with a strange fixity, as if watching for asign of dissent or surprise. I gave neither. I was irresistibly impelled to say-- "The visit from that gentleman has not made it any easier, I fear. " Miss Haldin stood before me with a peculiar expression in her eyes. "I don't pretend to understand completely. Some guide one must have, even if one does not wholly give up the direction of one's conduct tohim. I am an inexperienced girl, but I am not slavish, There has beentoo much of that in Russia. Why should I not listen to him? There is noharm in having one's thoughts directed. But I don't mind confessingto you that I have not been completely candid with Peter Ivanovitch. Idon't quite know what prevented me at the moment.... " She walked away suddenly from me to a distant part of the room; butit was only to open and shut a drawer in a bureau. She returned witha piece of paper in her hand. It was thin and blackened with closehandwriting. It was obviously a letter. "I wanted to read you the very words, " she said. "This is one of my poorbrother's letters. He never doubted. How could he doubt? They make onlysuch a small handful, these miserable oppressors, before the unanimouswill of our people. " "Your brother believed in the power of a people's will to achieveanything?" "It was his religion, " declared Miss Haldin. I looked at her calm face and her animated eyes. "Of course the will must be awakened, inspired, concentrated, " she wenton. "That is the true task of real agitators. One has got to give upone's life to it. The degradation of servitude, the absolutist lies mustbe uprooted and swept out. Reform is impossible. There is nothing toreform. There is no legality, there are no institutions. There areonly arbitrary decrees. There is only a handful of cruel--perhapsblind--officials against a nation. " The letter rustled slightly in her hand. I glanced down at theflimsy blackened pages whose very handwriting seemed cabalistic, incomprehensible to the experience of Western Europe. "Stated like this, " I confessed, "the problem seems simple enough. But Ifear I shall not see it solved. And if you go back to Russia I know thatI shall not see you again. Yet once more I say: go back! Don't supposethat I am thinking of your preservation. No! I know that you will notbe returning to personal safety. But I had much rather think of you indanger there than see you exposed to what may be met here. " "I tell you what, " said Miss Haldin, after a moment of reflection. "Ibelieve that you hate revolution; you fancy it's not quite honest. Youbelong to a people which has made a bargain with fate and wouldn't liketo be rude to it. But we have made no bargain. It was never offered tous--so much liberty for so much hard cash. You shrink from the ideaof revolutionary action for those you think well of as if it weresomething--how shall I say it--not quite decent. " I bowed my head. "You are quite right, " I said. "I think very highly of you" "Don't suppose I do not know it, " she began hurriedly. "Your friendshiphas been very valuable. " "I have done little else but look on. " She was a little flushed under the eyes. "There is a way of looking on which is valuable I have felt less lonelybecause of it. It's difficult to explain. " "Really? Well, I too have felt less lonely. That's easy to explain, though. But it won't go on much longer. The last thing I want to tellyou is this: in a real revolution--not a simple dynastic change or amere reform of institutions--in a real revolution the best charactersdo not come to the front. A violent revolution falls into the hands ofnarrow-minded fanatics and of tyrannical hypocrites at first. Afterwardscomes the turn of all the pretentious intellectual failures of the time. Such are the chiefs and the leaders. You will notice that I have leftout the mere rogues. The scrupulous and the just, the noble, humane, and devoted natures; the unselfish and the intelligent may begin amovement--but it passes away from them. They are not the leaders ofa revolution. They are its victims: the victims of disgust, ofdisenchantment--often of remorse. Hopes grotesquely betrayed, idealscaricatured--that is the definition of revolutionary success. There havebeen in every revolution hearts broken by such successes. But enough ofthat. My meaning is that I don't want you to be a victim. " "If I could believe all you have said I still wouldn't think of myself, "protested Miss Haldin. "I would take liberty from any hand as a hungryman would snatch at a piece of bread. The true progress must beginafter. And for that the right men shall be found. They are alreadyamongst us. One comes upon them in their obscurity, unknown, preparingthemselves.... " She spread out the letter she had kept in her hand all the time, andlooking down at it-- "Yes! One comes upon such men!" she repeated, and then read out thewords, "Unstained, lofty, and solitary existences. " Folding up the letter, while I looked at her interrogatively, sheexplained-- "These are the words which my brother applies to a young man he came toknow in St. Petersburg. An intimate friend, I suppose. It must be. Hisis the only name my brother mentions in all his correspondence with me. Absolutely the only one, and--would you believe it?--the man is here. Hearrived recently in Geneva. " "Have you seen him?" I inquired. "But, of course; you must have seenhim. " "No! No! I haven't! I didn't know he was here. It's Peter Ivanovitchhimself who told me. You have heard him yourself mentioning a newarrival from Petersburg.... Well, that is the man of 'unstained, lofty, and solitary existence. ' My brother's friend!" "Compromised politically, I suppose, " I remarked. "I don't know. Yes. It must be so. Who knows! Perhaps it was this veryfriendship with my brother which.... But no! It is scarcely possible. Really, I know nothing except what Peter Ivanovitch told me of him. Hehas brought a letter of introduction from Father Zosim--you know, thepriest-democrat; you have heard of Father Zosim?" "Oh yes. The famous Father Zosim was staying here in Geneva for some twomonths about a year ago, " I said. "When he left here he seems to havedisappeared from the world. " "It appears that he is at work in Russia again. Somewhere in thecentre, " Miss Haldin said, with animation. "But please don't mentionthat to any one--don't let it slip from you, because if it got into thepapers it would be dangerous for him. " "You are anxious, of course, to meet that friend of your brother?" Iasked. Miss Haldin put the letter into her pocket. Her eyes looked beyond myshoulder at the door of her mother's room. "Not here, " she murmured. "Not for the first time, at least. " After a moment of silence I said good-bye, but Miss Haldin followed meinto the ante-room, closing the door behind us carefully. "I suppose you guess where I mean to go tomorrow?" "You have made up your mind to call on Madame de S--. " "Yes. I am going to the Chateau Borel. I must. " "What do you expect to hear there?" I asked, in a low voice. I wondered if she were not deluding herself with some impossible hope. It was not that, however. "Only think--such a friend. The only man mentioned in his letters. Hewould have something to give me, if nothing more than a few poor words. It may be something said and thought in those last days. Would you wantme to turn my back on what is left of my poor brother--a friend?" "Certainly not, " I said. "I quite understand your pious curiosity. " "--Unstained, lofty, and solitary existences, " she murmured to herself. "There are! There are! Well, let me question one of them about the loveddead. " "How do you know, though, that you will meet him there? Is he staying inthe Chateau as a guest--do you suppose?" "I can't really tell, " she confessed. "He brought a written introductionfrom Father Zosim--who, it seems, is a friend of Madame de S-- too. Shecan't be such a worthless woman after all. " "There were all sorts of rumours afloat about Father Zosim himself, " Iobserved. She shrugged her shoulders. "Calumny is a weapon of our government too. It's well known. Oh yes! Itis a fact that Father Zosim had the protection of the Governor-Generalof a certain province. We talked on the subject with my brother twoyears ago, I remember. But his work was good. And now he is proscribed. What better proof can one require. But no matter what that priest wasor is. All that cannot affect my brother's friend. If I don't meet himthere I shall ask these people for his address. And, of course, mothermust see him too, later on. There is no guessing what he may have totell us. It would be a mercy if mamma could be soothed. You know whatshe imagines. Some explanation perhaps may be found, or--or even madeup, perhaps. It would be no sin. " "Certainly, " I said, "it would be no sin. It may be a mistake, though. " "I want her only to recover some of her old spirit. While she is likethis I cannot think of anything calmly. " "Do you mean to invent some sort of pious fraud for your mother's sake?"I asked. "Why fraud? Such a friend is sure to know something of my brother inthese last days. He could tell us.... There is something in thefacts which will not let me rest. I am certain he meant to join usabroad--that he had some plans--some great patriotic action in view;not only for himself, but for both of us. I trusted in that. I lookedforward to the time! Oh! with such hope and impatience. I could havehelped. And now suddenly this appearance of recklessness--as if he hadnot cared.... " She remained silent for a time, then obstinately she concluded-- "I want to know.... " Thinking it over, later on, while I walked slowly away from theBoulevard des Philosophes, I asked myself critically, what precisely wasit that she wanted to know? What I had heard of her history was enoughto give me a clue. In the educational establishment for girls where MissHaldin finished her studies she was looked upon rather unfavourably. She was suspected of holding independent views on matters settled byofficial teaching. Afterwards, when the two ladies returned to theircountry place, both mother and daughter, by speaking their minds openlyon public events, had earned for themselves a reputation of liberalism. The three-horse trap of the district police-captain began to be seenfrequently in their village. "I must keep an eye on the peasants"--so heexplained his visits up at the house. "Two lonely ladies must be lookedafter a little. " He would inspect the walls as though he wanted topierce them with his eyes, peer at the photographs, turn over the booksin the drawing-room negligently, and after the usual refreshments, would depart. But the old priest of the village came one evening in thegreatest distress and agitation, to confess that he--the priest--hadbeen ordered to watch and ascertain in other ways too (such as using hisspiritual power with the servants) all that was going on in the house, and especially in respect of the visitors these ladies received, whothey were, the length of their stay, whether any of them were strangersto that part of the country, and so on. The poor, simple old man was inan agony of humiliation and terror. "I came to warn you. Be cautious inyour conduct, for the love of God. I am burning with shame, but there isno getting out from under the net. I shall have to tell them what Isee, because if I did not there is my deacon. He would make the worstof things to curry favour. And then my son-in-law, the husband of myParasha, who is a writer in the Government Domain office; they wouldsoon kick him out--and maybe send him away somewhere. " The old manlamented the necessities of the times--"when people do not agreesomehow" and wiped his eyes. He did not wish to spend the evening of hisdays with a shaven head in the penitent's cell of some monastery--"andsubjected to all the severities of ecclesiastical discipline; forthey would show no mercy to an old man, " he groaned. He became almosthysterical, and the two ladies, full of commiseration, soothed him thebest they could before they let him go back to his cottage. But, as amatter of fact, they had very few visitors. The neighbours--some of themold friends--began to keep away; a few from timidity, others with markeddisdain, being grand people that came only for the summer--Miss Haldinexplained to me--aristocrats, reactionaries. It was a solitary existencefor a young girl. Her relations with her mother were of the tenderestand most open kind; but Mrs. Haldin had seen the experiences of herown generation, its sufferings, its deceptions, its apostasies too. Heraffection for her children was expressed by the suppression of all signsof anxiety. She maintained a heroic reserve. To Nathalie Haldin, herbrother with his Petersburg existence, not enigmatical in the least(there could be no doubt of what he felt or thought) but conducted alittle mysteriously, was the only visible representative of a proscribedliberty. All the significance of freedom, its indefinite promises, livedin their long discussions, which breathed the loftiest hope of actionand faith in success. Then, suddenly, the action, the hopes, came toan end with the details ferreted out by the English journalist. Theconcrete fact, the fact of his death remained! but it remained obscurein its deeper causes. She felt herself abandoned without explanation. But she did not suspect him. What she wanted was to learn almost at anycost how she could remain faithful to his departed spirit. IV Several days elapsed before I met Nathalie Haldin again. I was crossingthe place in front of the theatre when I made out her shapely figurein the very act of turning between the gate pillars of the unattractivepublic promenade of the Bastions. She walked away from me, but I knewwe should meet as she returned down the main alley--unless, indeed, shewere going home. In that case, I don't think I should have called on heryet. My desire to keep her away from these people was as strong as ever, but I had no illusions as to my power. I was but a Westerner, and it wasclear that Miss Haldin would not, could not listen to my wisdom; and asto my desire of listening to her voice, it were better, I thought, notto indulge overmuch in that pleasure. No, I should not have gone to theBoulevard des Philosophes; but when at about the middle of the principalalley I saw Miss Haldin coming towards me, I was too curious, and toohonest, perhaps, to run away. There was something of the spring harshness in the air. The blue sky washard, but the young leaves clung like soft mist about the uninterestingrange of trees; and the clear sun put little points of gold into thegrey of Miss Haldin's frank eyes, turned to me with a friendly greeting. I inquired after the health of her mother. She had a slight movement of the shoulders and a little sad sigh. "But, you see, I did come out for a walk... For exercise, as youEnglish say. " I smiled approvingly, and she added an unexpected remark-- "It is a glorious day. " Her voice, slightly harsh, but fascinating with its masculine andbird-like quality, had the accent of spontaneous conviction. I was gladof it. It was as though she had become aware of her youth--for there wasbut little of spring-like glory in the rectangular railed space ofgrass and trees, framed visibly by the orderly roof-slopes of that town, comely without grace, and hospitable without sympathy. In the very airthrough which she moved there was but little warmth; and the sky, thesky of a land without horizons, swept and washed clean by the Aprilshowers, extended a cold cruel blue, without elevation, narrowedsuddenly by the ugly, dark wall of the Jura where, here and there, lingered yet a few miserable trails and patches of snow. All the gloryof the season must have been within herself--and I was glad this feelinghad come into her life, if only for a little time. "I am pleased to hear you say these words. " She gave me a quick look. Quick, not stealthy. If there was one thing of which she was absolutelyincapable, it was stealthiness, Her sincerity was expressed in the veryrhythm of her walk. It was I who was looking at her covertly--if I maysay so. I knew where she had been, but I did not know what she had seenand heard in that nest of aristocratic conspiracies. I use the wordaristocratic, for want of a better term. The Chateau Borel, emboweredin the trees and thickets of its neglected grounds, had its fame in ourday, like the residence of that other dangerous and exiled woman, Madamede Stael, in the Napoleonic era. Only the Napoleonic despotism, thebooted heir of the Revolution, which counted that intellectual woman foran enemy worthy to be watched, was something quite unlike the autocracyin mystic vestments, engendered by the slavery of a Tartar conquest. And Madame de S-- was very far from resembling the gifted author of_Corinne_. She made a great noise about being persecuted. I don'tknow if she were regarded in certain circles as dangerous. As to beingwatched, I imagine that the Chateau Borel could be subjected only to amost distant observation. It was in its exclusiveness an ideal abode forhatching superior plots--whether serious or futile. But all this did notinterest me. I wanted to know the effect its extraordinary inhabitantsand its special atmosphere had produced on a girl like Miss Haldin, sotrue, so honest, but so dangerously inexperienced! Her unconsciouslylofty ignorance of the baser instincts of mankind left her disarmedbefore her own impulses. And there was also that friend of her brother, the significant new arrival from Russia.... I wondered whether shehad managed to meet him. We walked for some time, slowly and in silence. "You know, " I attacked her suddenly, "if you don't intend telling meanything, you must say so distinctly, and then, of course, it shall befinal. But I won't play at delicacy. I ask you point-blank for all thedetails. " She smiled faintly at my threatening tone. "You are as curious as a child. " "No. I am only an anxious old man, " I replied earnestly. She rested her glance on me as if to ascertain the degree of my anxietyor the number of my years. My physiognomy has never been expressive, I believe, and as to my years I am not ancient enough as yet to bestrikingly decrepit. I have no long beard like the good hermit of aromantic ballad; my footsteps are not tottering, my aspect not that ofa slow, venerable sage. Those picturesque advantages are not mine. I amold, alas, in a brisk, commonplace way. And it seemed to me as thoughthere were some pity for me in Miss Haldin's prolonged glance. Shestepped out a little quicker. "You ask for all the details. Let me see. I ought to remember them. Itwas novel enough for a--a village girl like me. " After a moment of silence she began by saying that the Chateau Borel wasalmost as neglected inside as outside. It was nothing to wonder at, aHamburg banker, I believe, retired from business, had it built to cheerhis remaining days by the view of that lake whose precise, orderly, and well-to-do beauty must have been attractive to the unromanticimagination of a business man. But he died soon. His wife departedtoo (but only to Italy), and this house of moneyed ease, presumablyunsaleable, had stood empty for several years. One went to it up agravel drive, round a large, coarse grass-plot, with plenty of time toobserve the degradation of its stuccoed front. Miss Haldin said that theimpression was unpleasant. It grew more depressing as one came nearer. She observed green stains of moss on the steps of the terrace. The frontdoor stood wide open. There was no one about. She found herself in awide, lofty, and absolutely empty hall, with a good many doors. Thesedoors were all shut. A broad, bare stone staircase faced her, andthe effect of the whole was of an untenanted house. She stood still, disconcerted by the solitude, but after a while she became aware of avoice speaking continuously somewhere. "You were probably being observed all the time, " I suggested. "Theremust have been eyes. " "I don't see how that could be, " she retorted. "I haven't seen even abird in the grounds. I don't remember hearing a single twitter in thetrees. The whole place appeared utterly deserted except for the voice. " She could not make out the language--Russian, French, or German. No oneseemed to answer it. It was as though the voice had been left behind bythe departed inhabitants to talk to the bare walls. It went on volubly, with a pause now and then. It was lonely and sad. The time seemed verylong to Miss Haldin. An invincible repugnance prevented her from openingone of the doors in the hall. It was so hopeless. No one would come, thevoice would never stop. She confessed to me that she had to resist animpulse to turn round and go away unseen, as she had come. "Really? You had that impulse?" I cried, full of regret. "What a pityyou did not obey it. " She shook her head. "What a strange memory it would have been for one. Those desertedgrounds, that empty hall, that impersonal, voluble voice, and--nobody, nothing, not a soul. " The memory would have been unique and harmless. But she was not a girlto run away from an intimidating impression of solitude and mystery. "No, I did not run away, " she said. "I stayed where I was--and I did seea soul. Such a strange soul. " As she was gazing up the broad staircase, and had concluded thatthe voice came from somewhere above, a rustle of dress attracted herattention. She looked down and saw a woman crossing the hall, havingissued apparently through one of the many doors. Her face was averted, so that at first she was not aware of Miss Haldin. On turning her head and seeing a stranger, she appeared very muchstartled. From her slender figure Miss Haldin had taken her for a younggirl; but if her face was almost childishly round, it was also sallowand wrinkled, with dark rings under the eyes. A thick crop of dustybrown hair was parted boyishly on the side with a lateral wave above thedry, furrowed forehead. After a moment of dumb blinking, she suddenlysquatted down on the floor. "What do you mean by squatted down?" I asked, astonished. "This is avery strange detail. " Miss Haldin explained the reason. This person when first seen wascarrying a small bowl in her hand. She had squatted down to put iton the floor for the benefit of a large cat, which appeared then frombehind her skirts, and hid its head into the bowl greedily. She got up, and approaching Miss Haldin asked with nervous bluntness-- "What do you want? Who are you?" Miss Haldin mentioned her name and also the name of Peter Ivanovitch. The girlish, elderly woman nodded and puckered her face into a momentaryexpression of sympathy. Her black silk blouse was old and even frayedin places; the black serge skirt was short and shabby. She continued toblink at close quarters, and her eyelashes and eyebrows seemed shabbytoo. Miss Haldin, speaking gently to her, as if to an unhappy andsensitive person, explained how it was that her visit could not be analtogether unexpected event to Madame de S--. "Ah! Peter Ivanovitch brought you an invitation. How was I to know? A_dame de compangnie_ is not consulted, as you may imagine. " The shabby woman laughed a little. Her teeth, splendidly white andadmirably even, looked absurdly out of place, like a string of pearls onthe neck of a ragged tramp. "Peter Ivanovitch is the greatest genius ofthe century perhaps, but he is the most inconsiderate man living. So ifyou have an appointment with him you must not be surprised to hear thathe is not here. " Miss Haldin explained that she had no appointment with Peter Ivanovitch. She became interested at once in that bizarre person. "Why should he put himself out for you or any one else? Oh! thesegeniuses. If you only knew! Yes! And their books--I mean, of course, thebooks that the world admires, the inspired books. But you have not beenbehind the scenes. Wait till you have to sit at a table for a half a daywith a pen in your hand. He can walk up and down his rooms for hours andhours. I used to get so stiff and numb that I was afraid I would lose mybalance and fall off the chair all at once. " She kept her hands folded in front of her, and her eyes, fixed on MissHaldin's face, betrayed no animation whatever. Miss Haldin, gatheringthat the lady who called herself a _dame de compangnie_ was proud ofhaving acted as secretary to Peter Ivanovitch, made an amiable remark. "You could not imagine a more trying experience, " declared the lady. "There is an Anglo-American journalist interviewing Madame de S-- now, or I would take you up, " she continued in a changed tone and glancingtowards the staircase. "I act as master of ceremonies. " It appeared that Madame de S-- could not bear Swiss servants abouther person; and, indeed, servants would not stay for very long in theChateau Borel. There were always difficulties. Miss Haldin had alreadynoticed that the hall was like a dusty barn of marble and stucco withcobwebs in the corners and faint tracks of mud on the black and whitetessellated floor. "I look also after this animal, " continued the _dame de compagnie_, keeping her hands folded quietly in front of her; and she bent herworn gaze upon the cat. "I don't mind a bit. Animals have their rights;though, strictly speaking, I see no reason why they should not suffer aswell as human beings. Do you? But of course they never suffer so much. That is impossible. Only, in their case it is more pitiful because theycannot make a revolution. I used to be a Republican. I suppose you are aRepublican?" Miss Haldin confessed to me that she did not know what to say. But shenodded slightly, and asked in her turn-- "And are you no longer a Republican?" "After taking down Peter Ivanovitch from dictation for two years, it isdifficult for me to be anything. First of all, you have to sit perfectlymotionless. The slightest movement you make puts to flight the ideas ofPeter Ivanovitch. You hardly dare to breathe. And as to coughing--Godforbid! Peter Ivanovitch changed the position of the table to the wallbecause at first I could not help raising my eyes to look out of thewindow, while waiting for him to go on with his dictation. That was notallowed. He said I stared so stupidly. I was likewise not permitted tolook at him over my shoulder. Instantly Peter Ivanovitch stamped hisfoot, and would roar, 'Look down on the paper!' It seems my expression, my face, put him off. Well, I know that I am not beautiful, and that myexpression is not hopeful either. He said that my air of unintelligentexpectation irritated him. These are his own words. " Miss Haldin was shocked, but admitted to me that she was not altogethersurprised. "Is it possible that Peter Ivanovitch could treat any woman so rudely?"she cried. The _dame de compagnie_ nodded several times with an air of discretion, then assured Miss Haldin that she did not mind in the least. The tryingpart of it was to have the secret of the composition laid bare beforeher; to see the great author of the revolutionary gospels grope forwords as if he were in the dark as to what he meant to say. "I am quite willing to be the blind instrument of higher ends. Togive one's life for the cause is nothing. But to have one's illusionsdestroyed--that is really almost more than one can bear. I really don'texaggerate, " she insisted. "It seemed to freeze my very beliefs inme--the more so that when we worked in winter Peter Ivanovitch, walkingup and down the room, required no artificial heat to keep himself warm. Even when we move to the South of France there are bitterly cold days, especially when you have to sit still for six hours at a stretch. Thewalls of these villas on the Riviera are so flimsy. Peter Ivanovitch didnot seem to be aware of anything. It is true that I kept down my shiversfrom fear of putting him out. I used to set my teeth till my jaws feltabsolutely locked. In the moments when Peter Ivanovitch interrupted hisdictation, and sometimes these intervals were very long--often twentyminutes, no less, while he walked to and fro behind my back mutteringto himself--I felt I was dying by inches, I assure you. Perhaps if I hadlet my teeth rattle Peter Ivanovitch might have noticed my distress, butI don't think it would have had any practical effect. She's very miserlyin such matters. " The _dame de compagnie_ glanced up the staircase. The big cat hadfinished the milk and was rubbing its whiskered cheek sinuously againsther skirt. She dived to snatch it up from the floor. "Miserliness is rather a quality than otherwise, you know, " shecontinued, holding the cat in her folded arms. "With us it is misers whocan spare money for worthy objects--not the so-called generous natures. But pray don't think I am a sybarite. My father was a clerk in theMinistry of Finances with no position at all. You may guess by this thatour home was far from luxurious, though of course we did not actuallysuffer from cold. I ran away from my parents, you know, directly I beganto think by myself. It is not very easy, such thinking. One has got tobe put in the way of it, awakened to the truth. I am indebted for mysalvation to an old apple-woman, who had her stall under the gatewayof the house we lived in. She had a kind wrinkled face, and the mostfriendly voice imaginable. One day, casually, we began to talk about achild, a ragged little girl we had seen begging from men in the streetsat dusk; and from one thing to another my eyes began to open graduallyto the horrors from which innocent people are made to suffer inthis world, only in order that governments might exist. After I onceunderstood the crime of the upper classes, I could not go on living withmy parents. Not a single charitable word was to be heard in our homefrom year's end to year's end; there was nothing but the talk of vileoffice intrigues, and of promotion and of salaries, and of courting thefavour of the chiefs. The mere idea of marrying one day such another manas my father made me shudder. I don't mean that there was anyone wantingto marry me. There was not the slightest prospect of anything of thekind. But was it not sin enough to live on a Government salary whilehalf Russia was dying of hunger? The Ministry of Finances! What agrotesque horror it is! What does the starving, ignorant people wantwith a Ministry of Finances? I kissed my old folks on both cheeks, andwent away from them to live in cellars, with the proletariat. I triedto make myself useful to the utterly hopeless. I suppose you understandwhat I mean? I mean the people who have nowhere to go and nothing tolook forward to in this life. Do you understand how frightful thatis--nothing to look forward to! Sometimes I think that it is only inRussia that there are such people and such a depth of misery can bereached. Well, I plunged into it, and--do you know--there isn't muchthat one can do in there. No, indeed--at least as long as there areMinistries of Finances and such like grotesque horrors to stand in theway. I suppose I would have gone mad there just trying to fight thevermin, if it had not been for a man. It was my old friend andteacher, the poor saintly apple-woman, who discovered him for me, quiteaccidentally. She came to fetch me late one evening in her quiet way. Ifollowed her where she would lead; that part of my life was in her handsaltogether, and without her my spirit would have perished miserably. Theman was a young workman, a lithographer by trade, and he had gotinto trouble in connexion with that affair of temperance tracts--youremember. There was a lot of people put in prison for that. The Ministryof Finances again! What would become of it if the poor folk ceasedmaking beasts of themselves with drink? Upon my word, I would think thatfinances and all the rest of it are an invention of the devil; only thata belief in a supernatural source of evil is not necessary; men aloneare quite capable of every wickedness. Finances indeed!" Hatred and contempt hissed in her utterance of the word "finances, " butat the very moment she gently stroked the cat reposing in her arms. She even raised them slightly, and inclining her head rubbed her cheekagainst the fur of the animal, which received this caress with thecomplete detachment so characteristic of its kind. Then looking at MissHaldin she excused herself once more for not taking her upstairs toMadame S-- The interview could not be interrupted. Presently thejournalist would be seen coming down the stairs. The best thing was toremain in the hall; and besides, all these rooms (she glanced allround at the many doors), all these rooms on the ground floor wereunfurnished. "Positively there is no chair down here to offer you, " she continued. "But if you prefer your own thoughts to my chatter, I will sit down onthe bottom step here and keep silent. " Miss Haldin hastened to assure her that, on the contrary, she was verymuch interested in the story of the journeyman lithographer. He was arevolutionist, of course. "A martyr, a simple man, " said the _dame de compangnie_, with a faintsigh, and gazing through the open front door dreamily. She turned hermisty brown eyes on Miss Haldin. "I lived with him for four months. It was like a nightmare. " As Miss Haldin looked at her inquisitively she began to describe theemaciated face of the man, his fleshless limbs, his destitution. The room into which the apple-woman had led her was a tiny garret, amiserable den under the roof of a sordid house. The plaster fallen offthe walls covered the floor, and when the door was opened a horribletapestry of black cobwebs waved in the draught. He had been liberated afew days before--flung out of prison into the streets. And Miss Haldinseemed to see for the first time, a name and a face upon the body ofthat suffering people whose hard fate had been the subject of so manyconversations, between her and her brother, in the garden of theircountry house. He had been arrested with scores and scores of other people in thataffair of the lithographed temperance tracts. Unluckily, having got holdof a great many suspected persons, the police thought they could extractfrom some of them other information relating to the revolutionistpropaganda. "They beat him so cruelly in the course of investigation, " went on the_dame de compagnie_, "that they injured him internally. When they haddone with him he was doomed. He could do nothing for himself. I beheldhim lying on a wooden bedstead without any bedding, with his head on abundle of dirty rags, lent to him out of charity by an old rag-picker, who happened to live in the basement of the house. There he was, uncovered, burning with fever, and there was not even a jug in theroom for the water to quench his thirst with. There was nothingwhatever--just that bedstead and the bare floor. " "Was there no one in all that great town amongst the liberals andrevolutionaries, to extend a helping hand to a brother?" asked MissHaldin indignantly. "Yes. But you do not know the most terrible part of that man's misery. Listen. It seems that they ill-used him so atrociously that, at last, his firmness gave way, and he did let out some information. Poor soul, the flesh is weak, you know. What it was he did not tell me. There wasa crushed spirit in that mangled body. Nothing I found to say could makehim whole. When they let him out, he crept into that hole, and bore hisremorse stoically. He would not go near anyone he knew. I would havesought assistance for him, but, indeed, where could I have gone lookingfor it? Where was I to look for anyone who had anything to spare or anypower to help? The people living round us were all starving and drunken. They were the victims of the Ministry of Finances. Don't ask me how welived. I couldn't tell you. It was like a miracle of wretchedness. I hadnothing to sell, and I assure you my clothes were in such a state thatit was impossible for me to go out in the daytime. I was indecent. I hadto wait till it was dark before I ventured into the streets to beg for acrust of bread, or whatever I could get, to keep him and me alive. OftenI got nothing, and then I would crawl back and lie on the floor by theside of his couch. Oh yes, I can sleep quite soundly on bare boards. That is nothing, and I am only mentioning it to you so that you shouldnot think I am a sybarite. It was infinitely less killing than the taskof sitting for hours at a table in a cold study to take the books ofPeter Ivanovitch from dictation. But you shall see yourself what that islike, so I needn't say any more about it. " "It is by no means certain that I will ever take Peter Ivanovitch fromdictation, " said Miss Haldin. "No!" cried the other incredulously. "Not certain? You mean to say thatyou have not made up your mind?" When Miss Haldin assured her that there never had been any question ofthat between her and Peter Ivanovitch, the woman with the cat compressedher lips tightly for a moment. "Oh, you will find yourself settled at the table before you know thatyou have made up your mind. Don't make a mistake, it is disenchantingto hear Peter Ivanovitch dictate, but at the same time there is afascination about it. He is a man of genius. Your face is certain not toirritate him; you may perhaps even help his inspiration, make it easierfor him to deliver his message. As I look at you, I feel certain thatyou are the kind of woman who is not likely to check the flow of hisinspiration. " Miss Haldin thought it useless to protest against all these assumptions. "But this man--this workman did he die under your care?" she said, aftera short silence. The _dame de compagnie_, listening up the stairs where now two voiceswere alternating with some animation, made no answer for a time. Whenthe loud sounds of the discussion had sunk into an almost inaudiblemurmur, she turned to Miss Haldin. "Yes, he died, but not, literally speaking, in my arms, as you mightsuppose. As a matter of fact, I was asleep when he breathed his last. So even now I cannot say I have seen anybody die. A few days beforethe end, some young men found us out in our extremity. They wererevolutionists, as you might guess. He ought to have trusted in hispolitical friends when he came out of prison. He had been liked andrespected before, and nobody would have dreamed of reproaching him withhis indiscretion before the police. Everybody knows how they go to work, and the strongest man has his moments of weakness before pain. Why, evenhunger alone is enough to give one queer ideas as to what may be done. Adoctor came, our lot was alleviated as far as physical comforts go, butotherwise he could not be consoled--poor man. I assure you, Miss Haldin, that he was very lovable, but I had not the strength to weep. I wasnearly dead myself. But there were kind hearts to take care of me. A dress was found to clothe my nakedness. I tell you, I was notdecent--and after a time the revolutionists placed me with a Jewishfamily going abroad, as governess. Of course I could teach the children, I finished the sixth class of the Lyceum; but the real object was, that I should carry some important papers across the frontier. I wasentrusted with a packet which I carried next my heart. The gendarmesat the station did not suspect the governess of a Jewish family, busylooking after three children. I don't suppose those Hebrews knew what Ihad on me, for I had been introduced to them in a very roundabout way bypersons who did not belong to the revolutionary movement, and naturallyI had been instructed to accept a very small salary. When we reachedGermany I left that family and delivered my papers to a revolutionistin Stuttgart; after this I was employed in various ways. But you do notwant to hear all that. I have never felt that I was very useful, but Ilive in hopes of seeing all the Ministries destroyed, finances andall. The greatest joy of my life has been to hear what your brother hasdone. " She directed her round eyes again to the sunshine outside, while thecat reposed within her folded arms in lordly beatitude and sphinx-likemeditation. "Yes! I rejoiced, " she began again. "For me there is a heroic ring aboutthe very name of Haldin. They must have been trembling with fear intheir Ministries--all those men with fiendish hearts. Here I standtalking to you, and when I think of all the cruelties, oppressions, and injustices that are going on at this very moment, my head begins toswim. I have looked closely at what would seem inconceivable if one'sown eyes had not to be trusted. I have looked at things that made mehate myself for my helplessness. I hated my hands that had no power, my voice that could not be heard, my very mind that would not becomeunhinged. Ah! I have seen things. And you?" Miss Haldin was moved. She shook her head slightly. "No, I have seen nothing for myself as yet, " she murmured "We havealways lived in the country. It was my brother's wish. " "It is a curious meeting--this--between you and me, " continued theother. "Do you believe in chance, Miss Haldin? How could I have expectedto see you, his sister, with my own eyes? Do you know that when the newscame the revolutionaries here were as much surprised as pleased, everybit? No one seemed to know anything about your brother. Peter Ivanovitchhimself had not foreseen that such a blow was going to be struck. Isuppose your brother was simply inspired. I myself think that suchdeeds should be done by inspiration. It is a great privilege to have theinspiration and the opportunity. Did he resemble you at all? Don't yourejoice, Miss Haldin?" "You must not expect too much from me, " said Miss Haldin, repressingan inclination to cry which came over her suddenly. She succeeded, thenadded calmly, "I am not a heroic person!" "You think you couldn't have done such a thing yourself perhaps?" "I don't know. I must not even ask myself till I have lived a littlelonger, seen more.... " The other moved her head appreciatively. The purring of the cat hada loud complacency in the empty hall. No sound of voices came fromupstairs. Miss Haldin broke the silence. "What is it precisely that you heard people say about my brother? Yousaid that they were surprised. Yes, I supposed they were. Did it notseem strange to them that my brother should have failed to save himselfafter the most difficult part--that is, getting away from the spot--wasover? Conspirators should understand these things well. There arereasons why I am very anxious to know how it is he failed to escape. " The _dame de compagnie_ had advanced to the open hall-door. She glancedrapidly over her shoulder at Miss Haldin, who remained within the hall. "Failed to escape, " she repeated absently. "Didn't he make the sacrificeof his life? Wasn't he just simply inspired? Wasn't it an act ofabnegation? Aren't you certain?" "What I am certain of, " said Miss Haldin, "is that it was not an actof despair. Have you not heard some opinion expressed here upon hismiserable capture?" The _dame de compagnie_ mused for a while in the doorway. "Did I hear? Of course, everything is discussed here. Has not all theworld been speaking about your brother? For my part, the mere mentionof his achievement plunges me into an envious ecstasy. Why should a mancertain of immortality think of his life at all?" She kept her back turned to Miss Haldin. Upstairs from behind a greatdingy white and gold door, visible behind the balustrade of the firstfloor landing, a deep voice began to drone formally, as if reading overnotes or something of the sort. It paused frequently, and then ceasedaltogether. "I don't think I can stay any longer now, " said Miss Haldin. "I mayreturn another day. " She waited for the _dame de compagnie_ to make room for her exit; butthe woman appeared lost in the contemplation of sunshine and shadows, sharing between themselves the stillness of the deserted grounds. Sheconcealed the view of the drive from Miss Haldin. Suddenly she said-- "It will not be necessary; here is Peter Ivanovitch himself coming up. But he is not alone. He is seldom alone now. " Hearing that Peter Ivanovitch was approaching, Miss Haldin was not sopleased as she might have been expected to be. Somehow she had lostthe desire to see either the heroic captive or Madame de S--, and thereason of that shrinking which came upon her at the very last minute isaccounted for by the feeling that those two people had not been treatingthe woman with the cat kindly. "Would you please let me pass?" said Miss Haldin at last, touchinglightly the shoulder of the _dame de compagnie_. But the other, pressing the cat to her breast, did not budge. "I know who is with him, " she said, without even looking back. More unaccountably than ever Miss Haldin felt a strong impulse to leavethe house. "Madame de S-- may be engaged for some time yet, and what I have got tosay to Peter Ivanovitch is just a simple question which I might put tohim when I meet him in the grounds on my way down. I really think Imust go. I have been some time here, and I am anxious to get back to mymother. Will you let me pass, please?" The _dame de compagnie_ turned her head at last. "I never supposed that you really wanted to see Madame de S--, " shesaid, with unexpected insight. "Not for a moment. " There was somethingconfidential and mysterious in her tone. She passed through the door, with Miss Haldin following her, on to the terrace, and they descendedside by side the moss-grown stone steps. There was no one to be seen onthe part of the drive visible from the front of the house. "They are hidden by the trees over there, " explained Miss Haldin's newacquaintance, "but you shall see them directly. I don't know who thatyoung man is to whom Peter Ivanovitch has taken such a fancy. He mustbe one of us, or he would not be admitted here when the others come. You know what I mean by the others. But I must say that he is not atall mystically inclined. I don't know that I have made him out yet. Naturally I am never for very long in the drawing-room. There isalways something to do for me, though the establishment here is not soextensive as the villa on the Riviera. But still there are plenty ofopportunities for me to make myself useful. " To the left, passing by the ivy-grown end of the stables, appeared PeterIvanovitch and his companion. They walked very slowly, conversing withsome animation. They stopped for a moment, and Peter Ivanovitch was seento gesticulate, while the young man listened motionless, with his armshanging down and his head bowed a little. He was dressed in a dark brownsuit and a black hat. The round eyes of the _dame de compagnie_ remainedfixed on the two figures, which had resumed their leisurely approach. "An extremely polite young man, " she said. "You shall see what a bow hewill make; and it won't altogether be so exceptional either. He bows inthe same way when he meets me alone in the hall. " She moved on a few steps, with Miss Haldin by her side, and thingshappened just as she had foretold. The young man took off his hat, bowedand fell back, while Peter Ivanovitch advanced quicker, his black, thickarms extended heartily, and seized hold of both Miss Haldin's hands, shook them, and peered at her through his dark glasses. "That's right, that's right!" he exclaimed twice, approvingly. "And soyou have been looked after by.... " He frowned slightly at the_dame de compagnie_, who was still nursing the cat. "I concludeEleanor--Madame de S-- is engaged. I know she expected somebody to-day. So the newspaper man did turn up, eh? She is engaged?" For all answer the _dame de compagnie_ turned away her head. "It is very unfortunate--very unfortunate indeed. I very much regretthat you should have been.... " He lowered suddenly his voice. "Butwhat is it--surely you are not departing, Natalia Victorovna? You gotbored waiting, didn't you?" "Not in the least, " Miss Haldin protested. "Only I have been here sometime, and I am anxious to get back to my mother. " "The time seemed long, eh? I am afraid our worthy friend here" (PeterIvanovitch suddenly jerked his head sideways towards his right shoulderand jerked it up again), --"our worthy friend here has not the art ofshortening the moments of waiting. No, distinctly she has not the art;and in that respect good intentions alone count for nothing. " The _dame de compagnie_ dropped her arms, and the cat found itselfsuddenly on the ground. It remained quite still after alighting, onehind leg stretched backwards. Miss Haldin was extremely indignant onbehalf of the lady companion. "Believe me, Peter Ivanovitch, that the moments I have passed inthe hall of this house have been not a little interesting, and veryinstructive too. They are memorable. I do not regret the waiting, butI see that the object of my call here can be attained without taking upMadame de S--'s time. " At this point I interrupted Miss Haldin. The above relation is foundedon her narrative, which I have not so much dramatized as might besupposed. She had rendered, with extraordinary feeling and animation, the very accent almost of the disciple of the old apple-woman, theirreconcilable hater of Ministries, the voluntary servant of the poor. Miss Haldin's true and delicate humanity had been extremely shockedby the uncongenial fate of her new acquaintance, that lady companion, secretary, whatever she was. For my own part, I was pleased to discoverin it one more obstacle to intimacy with Madame de S--. I had apositive abhorrence for the painted, bedizened, dead-faced, glassy-eyedEgeria of Peter Ivanovitch. I do not know what was her attitude to theunseen, but I know that in the affairs of this world she was avaricious, greedy, and unscrupulous. It was within my knowledge that she had beenworsted in a sordid and desperate quarrel about money matters with thefamily of her late husband, the diplomatist. Some very august personagesindeed (whom in her fury she had insisted upon scandalously involvingin her affairs) had incurred her animosity. I find it perfectly easy tobelieve that she had come to within an ace of being spirited away, forreasons of state, into some discreet _maison de sante_--a madhouseof sorts, to be plain. It appears, however, that certain high-placedpersonages opposed it for reasons which.... But it's no use to go into details. Wonder may be expressed at a man in the position of a teacher oflanguages knowing all this with such definiteness. A novelist says thisand that of his personages, and if only he knows how to say it earnestlyenough he may not be questioned upon the inventions of his brain inwhich his own belief is made sufficiently manifest by a telling phrase, a poetic image, the accent of emotion. Art is great! But I have no art, and not having invented Madame de S--, I feel bound to explain how Icame to know so much about her. My informant was the Russian wife of a friend of mine already mentioned, the professor of Lausanne University. It was from her that I learned thelast fact of Madame de S--'s history, with which I intend to troublemy readers. She told me, speaking positively, as a person who trusts hersources, of the cause of Madame de S--'s flight from Russia, some yearsbefore. It was neither more nor less than this: that she became suspectto the police in connexion with the assassination of the EmperorAlexander. The ground of this suspicion was either some unguardedexpressions that escaped her in public, or some talk overheard in hersalon. Overheard, we must believe, by some guest, perhaps a friend, whohastened to play the informer, I suppose. At any rate, the overheardmatter seemed to imply her foreknowledge of that event, and I think shewas wise in not waiting for the investigation of such a charge. Some ofmy readers may remember a little book from her pen, published in Paris, a mystically bad-tempered, declamatory, and frightfully disconnectedpiece of writing, in which she all but admits the foreknowledge, morethan hints at its supernatural origin, and plainly suggests in venomousinnuendoes that the guilt of the act was not with the terrorists, butwith a palace intrigue. When I observed to my friend, the professor'swife, that the life of Madame de S--, with its unofficial diplomacy, its intrigues, lawsuits, favours, disgrace, expulsions, its atmosphereof scandal, occultism, and charlatanism, was more fit for the eighteenthcentury than for the conditions of our own time, she assented witha smile, but a moment after went on in a reflective tone:"Charlatanism?--yes, in a certain measure. Still, times are changed. There are forces now which were non-existent in the eighteenth century. I should not be surprised if she were more dangerous than an Englishmanwould be willing to believe. And what's more, she is looked upon asreally dangerous by certain people--_chez nous_. " _Chez nous_ in this connexion meant Russia in general, and the Russianpolitical police in particular. The object of my digression from thestraight course of Miss Haldin's relation (in my own words) of her visitto the Chateau Borel, was to bring forward that statement of my friend, the professor's wife. I wanted to bring it forward simply to make what Ihave to say presently of Mr. Razumov's presence in Geneva, a little morecredible--for this is a Russian story for Western ears, which, as Ihave observed already, are not attuned to certain tones of cynicism andcruelty, of moral negation, and even of moral distress already silencedat our end of Europe. And this I state as my excuse for having left MissHaldin standing, one of the little group of two women and two men whohad come together below the terrace of the Chateau Borel. The knowledge which I have just stated was in my mind when, as I havesaid, I interrupted Miss Haldin. I interrupted her with the cry ofprofound satisfaction-- "So you never saw Madame de S--, after all?" Miss Haldin shook her head. It was very satisfactory to me. She hadnot seen Madame de S--! That was excellent, excellent! I welcomed theconviction that she would never know Madame de S-- now. I could notexplain the reason of the conviction but by the knowledge that MissHaldin was standing face to face with her brother's wonderful friend. Ipreferred him to Madame de S-- as the companion and guide of that younggirl, abandoned to her inexperience by the miserable end of her brother. But, at any rate, that life now ended had been sincere, and perhaps itsthoughts might have been lofty, its moral sufferings profound, its lastact a true sacrifice. It is not for us, the staid lovers calmed bythe possession of a conquered liberty, to condemn without appeal thefierceness of thwarted desire. I am not ashamed of the warmth of my regard for Miss Haldin. It was, itmust be admitted, an unselfish sentiment, being its own reward. The lateVictor Haldin--in the light of that sentiment--appeared to me not as asinister conspirator, but as a pure enthusiast. I did not wish indeedto judge him, but the very fact that he did not escape, that fact whichbrought so much trouble to both his mother and his sister, spoke to mein his favour. Meantime, in my fear of seeing the girl surrender to theinfluence of the Chateau Borel revolutionary feminism, I was more thanwilling to put my trust in that friend of the late Victor Haldin. He wasnothing but a name, you will say. Exactly! A name! And what's more, the only name; the only name to be found in the correspondence betweenbrother and sister. The young man had turned up; they had come face toface, and, fortunately, without the direct interference of Madame deS--. What will come of it? what will she tell me presently? I wasasking myself. It was only natural that my thought should turn to the young man, thebearer of the only name uttered in all the dream-talk of a future to bebrought about by a revolution. And my thought took the shape of askingmyself why this young man had not called upon these ladies. He had beenin Geneva for some days before Miss Haldin heard of him first in mypresence from Peter Ivanovitch. I regretted that last's presence attheir meeting. I would rather have had it happen somewhere out of hisspectacled sight. But I supposed that, having both these young peoplethere, he introduced them to each other. I broke the silence by beginning a question on that point-- "I suppose Peter Ivanovitch.... " Miss Haldin gave vent to her indignation. Peter Ivanovitch directly hehad got his answer from her had turned upon the _dame de compagnie_ in ashameful manner. "Turned upon her?" I wondered. "What about? For what reason?" "It was unheard of; it was shameful, " Miss Haldin pursued, with angryeyes. "_Il lui a fait une scene_--like this, before strangers. And forwhat? You would never guess. For some eggs.... Oh!" I was astonished. "Eggs, did you say?" "For Madame de S--. That lady observes a special diet, or somethingof the sort. It seems she complained the day before to Peter Ivanovitchthat the eggs were not rightly prepared. Peter Ivanovitch suddenlyremembered this against the poor woman, and flew out at her. It was mostastonishing. I stood as if rooted. " "Do you mean to say that the great feminist allowed himself to beabusive to a woman?" I asked. "Oh, not that! It was something you have no conception of. It was anodious performance. Imagine, he raised his hat to begin with. He madehis voice soft and deprecatory. 'Ah! you are not kind to us--you willnot deign to remember.... ' This sort of phrases, that sort of tone. The poor creature was terribly upset. Her eyes ran full of tears. She did not know where to look. I shouldn't wonder if she would havepreferred abuse, or even a blow. " I did not remark that very possibly she was familiar with both onoccasions when no one was by. Miss Haldin walked by my side, her head upin scornful and angry silence. "Great men have their surprising peculiarities, " I observed inanely. "Exactly like men who are not great. But that sort of thing cannotbe kept up for ever. How did the great feminist wind up this verycharacteristic episode?" Miss Haldin, without turning her face my way, told me that the endwas brought about by the appearance of the interviewer, who had beencloseted with Madame de S--. He came up rapidly, unnoticed, lifted his hat slightly, and paused tosay in French: "The Baroness has asked me, in case I met a lady on myway out, to desire her to come in at once. " After delivering this message, he hurried down the drive. The _dame decompagnie_ flew towards the house, and Peter Ivanovitch followed herhastily, looking uneasy. In a moment Miss Haldin found herself alonewith the young man, who undoubtedly must have been the new arrivalfrom Russia. She wondered whether her brother's friend had not alreadyguessed who she was. I am in a position to say that, as a matter of fact, he had guessed. It is clear to me that Peter Ivanovitch, for some reason or other, hadrefrained from alluding to these ladies' presence in Geneva. But Razumovhad guessed. The trustful girl! Every word uttered by Haldin lived inRazumov's memory. They were like haunting shapes; they could not beexorcised. The most vivid amongst them was the mention of the sister. The girl had existed for him ever since. But he did not recognize herat once. Coming up with Peter Ivanovitch, he did observe her; their eyeshad met, even. He had responded, as no one could help responding, tothe harmonious charm of her whole person, its strength, its grace, itstranquil frankness--and then he had turned his gaze away. He said tohimself that all this was not for him; the beauty of women and thefriendship of men were not for him. He accepted that feeling with apurposeful sternness, and tried to pass on. It was only her outstretchedhand which brought about the recognition. It stands recorded in thepages of his self-confession, that it nearly suffocated him physicallywith an emotional reaction of hate and dismay, as though her appearancehad been a piece of accomplished treachery. He faced about. The considerable elevation of the terrace concealed themfrom anyone lingering in the doorway of the house; and even from theupstairs windows they could not have been seen. Through the thickets runwild, and the trees of the gently sloping grounds, he had cold, placidglimpses of the lake. A moment of perfect privacy had been vouchsafedto them at this juncture. I wondered to myself what use they had made ofthat fortunate circumstance. "Did you have time for more than a few words?" I asked. That animation with which she had related to me the incidents of hervisit to the Chateau Borel had left her completely. Strolling by myside, she looked straight before her; but I noticed a little colour onher cheek. She did not answer me. After some little time I observed that they could not have hoped toremain forgotten for very long, unless the other two had discoveredMadame de S-- swooning with fatigue, perhaps, or in a state of morbidexaltation after the long interview. Either would require their devotedministrations. I could depict to myself Peter Ivanovitch rushing busilyout of the house again, bareheaded, perhaps, and on across the terracewith his swinging gait, the black skirts of the frock-coat floatingclear of his stout light grey legs. I confess to having looked uponthese young people as the quarry of the "heroic fugitive. " I had thenotion that they would not be allowed to escape capture. But of that Isaid nothing to Miss Haldin, only as she still remained uncommunicative, I pressed her a little. "Well--but you can tell me at least your impression. " She turned her head to look at me, and turned away again. "Impression?" she repeated slowly, almost dreamily; then in a quickertone-- "He seems to be a man who has suffered more from his thoughts than fromevil fortune. " "From his thoughts, you say?" "And that is natural enough in a Russian, " she took me up. "In a youngRussian; so many of them are unfit for action, and yet unable to rest. " "And you think he is that sort of man?" "No, I do not judge him. How could I, so suddenly? You asked for myimpression--I explain my impression. I--I--don't know the world, nor yetthe people in it; I have been too solitary--I am too young to trust myown opinions. " "Trust your instinct, " I advised her. "Most women trust to that, andmake no worse mistakes than men. In this case you have your brother'sletter to help you. " She drew a deep breath like a light sigh. "Unstained, lofty, andsolitary existences, " she quoted as if to herself. But I caught thewistful murmur distinctly. "High praise, " I whispered to her. "The highest possible. " "So high that, like the award of happiness, it is more fit to comeonly at the end of a life. But still no common or altogether unworthypersonality could have suggested such a confident exaggeration of praiseand... " "Ah!" She interrupted me ardently. "And if you had only known the heartfrom which that judgment has come!" She ceased on that note, and for a space I reflected on the character ofthe words which I perceived very well must tip the scale of the girl'sfeelings in that young man's favour. They had not the sound of acasual utterance. Vague they were to my Western mind and to my Westernsentiment, but I could not forget that, standing by Miss Haldin's side, I was like a traveller in a strange country. It had also become clear tome that Miss Haldin was unwilling to enter into the details of the onlymaterial part of their visit to the Chateau Borel. But I was not hurt. Somehow I didn't feel it to be a want of confidence. It was some otherdifficulty--a difficulty I could not resent. And it was without theslightest resentment that I said-- "Very well. But on that high ground, which I will not dispute, you, likeanyone else in such circumstances, you must have made for yourselfa representation of that exceptional friend, a mental image of him, and--please tell me--you were not disappointed?" "What do you mean? His personal appearance?" "I don't mean precisely his good looks, or otherwise. " We turned at the end of the alley and made a few steps without lookingat each other. "His appearance is not ordinary, " said Miss Haldin at last. "No, I should have thought not--from the little you've said of yourfirst impression. After all, one has to fall back on that word. Impression! What I mean is that something indescribable which is likelyto mark a 'not ordinary' person. " I perceived that she was not listening. There was no mistaking herexpression; and once more I had the sense of being out of it--notbecause of my age, which at any rate could draw inferences--butaltogether out of it, on another plane whence I could only watch herfrom afar. And so ceasing to speak I watched her stepping out by myside. "No, " she exclaimed suddenly, "I could not have been disappointed with aman of such strong feeling. " "Aha! Strong feeling, " I muttered, thinking to myself censoriously: likethis, at once, all in a moment! "What did you say?" inquired Miss Haldin innocently. "Oh, nothing. I beg your pardon. Strong feeling. I am not surprised. " "And you don't know how abruptly I behaved to him!" she criedremorsefully. I suppose I must have appeared surprised, for, looking at me with astill more heightened colour, she said she was ashamed to admit that shehad not been sufficiently collected; she had failed to control her wordsand actions as the situation demanded. She lost the fortitude worthy ofboth the men, the dead and the living; the fortitude which should havebeen the note of the meeting of Victor Haldin's sister with VictorHaldin's only known friend. He was looking at her keenly, but saidnothing, and she was--she confessed--painfully affected by his want ofcomprehension. All she could say was: "You are Mr. Razumov. " A slightfrown passed over his forehead. After a short, watchful pause, he made alittle bow of assent, and waited. At the thought that she had before her the man so highly regarded by herbrother, the man who had known his value, spoken to him, understood him, had listened to his confidences, perhaps had encouraged him--her lipstrembled, her eyes ran full of tears; she put out her hand, made a steptowards him impulsively, saying with an effort to restrain her emotion, "Can't you guess who I am?" He did not take the proffered hand. Heeven recoiled a pace, and Miss Haldin imagined that he was unpleasantlyaffected. Miss Haldin excused him, directing her displeasure atherself. She had behaved unworthily, like an emotional French girl. A manifestation of that kind could not be welcomed by a man of stern, self-contained character. He must have been stern indeed, or perhaps very timid with women, notto respond in a more human way to the advances of a girl like NathalieHaldin--I thought to myself. Those lofty and solitary existences (Iremembered the words suddenly) make a young man shy and an old mansavage--often. "Well, " I encouraged Miss Haldin to proceed. She was still very dissatisfied with herself. "I went from bad to worse, " she said, with an air of discouragement veryforeign to her. "I did everything foolish except actually bursting intotears. I am thankful to say I did not do that. But I was unable to speakfor quite a long time. " She had stood before him, speechless, swallowing her sobs, and whenshe managed at last to utter something, it was only her brother'sname--"Victor--Victor Haldin!" she gasped out, and again her voicefailed her. "Of course, " she commented to me, "this distressed him. He wasquite overcome. I have told you my opinion that he is a man of deepfeeling--it is impossible to doubt it. You should have seen his face. He positively reeled. He leaned against the wall of the terrace. Theirfriendship must have been the very brotherhood of souls! I was gratefulto him for that emotion, which made me feel less ashamed of my own lackof self-control. Of course I had regained the power of speech at once, almost. All this lasted not more than a few seconds. 'I am his sister, 'I said. 'Maybe you have heard of me. '" "And had he?" I interrupted. "I don't know. How could it have been otherwise? And yet.... But whatdoes that matter? I stood there before him, near enough to be touchedand surely not looking like an impostor. All I know is, that he putout both his hands then to me, I may say flung them out at me, withthe greatest readiness and warmth, and that I seized and pressed them, feeling that I was finding again a little of what I thought was lostto me for ever, with the loss of my brother--some of that hope, inspiration, and support which I used to get from my dear dead.... " I understood quite well what she meant. We strolled on slowly. Irefrained from looking at her. And it was as if answering my ownthoughts that I murmured-- "No doubt it was a great friendship--as you say. And that young manended by welcoming your name, so to speak, with both hands. After that, of course, you would understand each other. Yes, you would understandeach other quickly. " It was a moment before I heard her voice. "Mr. Razumov seems to be a man of few words. A reserved man--even whenhe is strongly moved. " Unable to forget---or even to forgive--the bass-toned expansiveness ofPeter Ivanovitch, the Archpatron of revolutionary parties, I said thatI took this for a favourable trait of character. It was associated withsincerity--in my mind. "And, besides, we had not much time, " she added. "No, you would not have, of course. " My suspicion and even dread of thefeminist and his Egeria was so ineradicable that I could not help askingwith real anxiety, which I made smiling-- "But you escaped all right?" She understood me, and smiled too, at my uneasiness. "Oh yes! I escaped, if you like to call it that. I walked away quickly. There was no need to run. I am neither frightened nor yet fascinated, like that poor woman who received me so strangely. " "And Mr. --Mr. Razumov... ?" "He remained there, of course. I suppose he went into the house after Ileft him. You remember that he came here strongly recommended to PeterIvanovitch--possibly entrusted with important messages for him. " "Ah yes! From that priest who... " "Father Zosim--yes. Or from others, perhaps. " "You left him, then. But have you seen him since, may I ask?" For some time Miss Haldin made no answer to this very direct question, then-- "I have been expecting to see him here to-day, " she said quietly. "You have! Do you meet, then, in this garden? In that case I had betterleave you at once. " "No, why leave me? And we don't meet in this garden. I have not seen Mr. Razumov since that first time. Not once. But I have been expectinghim.... " She paused. I wondered to myself why that young revolutionist shouldshow so little alacrity. "Before we parted I told Mr. Razumov that I walked here for an hourevery day at this time. I could not explain to him then why I did notask him to come and see us at once. Mother must be prepared for such avisit. And then, you see, I do not know myself what Mr. Razumov has totell us. He, too, must be told first how it is with poor mother. Allthese thoughts flashed through my mind at once. So I told him hurriedlythat there was a reason why I could not ask him to see us at home, butthat I was in the habit of walking here.... This is a public place, but there are never many people about at this hour. I thought it woulddo very well. And it is so near our apartments. I don't like to be veryfar away from mother. Our servant knows where I am in case I should bewanted suddenly. " "Yes. It is very convenient from that point of view, " I agreed. In fact, I thought the Bastions a very convenient place, since thegirl did not think it prudent as yet to introduce that young man toher mother. It was here, then, I thought, looking round at that plot ofground of deplorable banality, that their acquaintance will begin and goon in the exchange of generous indignations and of extreme sentiments, too poignant, perhaps, for a non-Russian mind to conceive. I saw thesetwo, escaped out of four score of millions of human beings groundbetween the upper and nether millstone, walking under these trees, theiryoung heads close together. Yes, an excellent place to stroll and talkin. It even occurred to me, while we turned once more away from the wideiron gates, that when tired they would have plenty of accommodation torest themselves. There was a quantity of tables and chairs displayedbetween the restaurant chalet and the bandstand, a whole raft of painteddeals spread out under the trees. In the very middle of it I observed asolitary Swiss couple, whose fate was made secure from the cradle tothe grave by the perfected mechanism of democratic institutions in arepublic that could almost be held in the palm of ones hand. The man, colourlessly uncouth, was drinking beer out of a glittering glass; thewoman, rustic and placid, leaning back in the rough chair, gazed idlyaround. There is little logic to be expected on this earth, not only in thematter of thought, but also of sentiment. I was surprised to discovermyself displeased with that unknown young man. A week had gone by sincethey met. Was he callous, or shy, or very stupid? I could not make itout. "Do you think, " I asked Miss Haldin, after we had gone some distance upthe great alley, "that Mr Razumov understood your intention?" "Understood what I meant?" she wondered. "He was greatly moved. ThatI know! In my own agitation I could see it. But I spoke distinctly. Heheard me; he seemed, indeed, to hang on my words... " Unconsciously she had hastened her pace. Her utterance, too, becamequicker. I waited a little before I observed thoughtfully-- "And yet he allowed all these days to pass. " "How can we tell what work he may have to do here? He is not an idlertravelling for his pleasure. His time may not be his own--nor yet histhoughts, perhaps. " She slowed her pace suddenly, and in a lowered voice added-- "Or his very life"--then paused and stood still "For all I know, he mayhave had to leave Geneva the very day he saw me. " "Without telling you!" I exclaimed incredulously. "I did not give him time. I left him quite abruptly. I behavedemotionally to the end. I am sorry for it. Even if I had given him theopportunity he would have been justified in taking me for a person notto be trusted. An emotional, tearful girl is not a person to confide in. But even if he has left Geneva for a time, I am confident that we shallmeet again. " "Ah! you are confident.... I dare say. But on what ground?" "Because I've told him that I was in great need of some one, afellow-countryman, a fellow-believer, to whom I could give my confidencein a certain matter. " "I see. I don't ask you what answer he made. I confess that this is goodground for your belief in Mr. Razumov's appearance before long. But hehas not turned up to-day?" "No, " she said quietly, "not to-day;" and we stood for a time insilence, like people that have nothing more to say to each other andlet their thoughts run widely asunder before their bodies go off theirdifferent ways. Miss Haldin glanced at the watch on her wrist and made abrusque movement. She had already overstayed her time, it seemed. "I don't like to be away from mother, " she murmured, shaking her head. "It is not that she is very ill now. But somehow when I am not with herI am more uneasy than ever. " Mrs. Haldin had not made the slightest allusion to her son for the lastweek or more. She sat, as usual, in the arm-chair by the window, lookingout silently on that hopeless stretch of the Boulevard des Philosophes. When she spoke, a few lifeless words, it was of indifferent, trivialthings. "For anyone who knows what the poor soul is thinking of, that sort oftalk is more painful than her silence. But that is bad too; I can hardlyendure it, and I dare not break it. " Miss Haldin sighed, refastening a button of her glove which had comeundone. I knew well enough what a hard time of it she must be having. The stress, its causes, its nature, would have undermined the healthof an Occidental girl; but Russian natures have a singular power ofresistance against the unfair strains of life. Straight and supple, witha short jacket open on her black dress, which made her figure appearmore slender and her fresh but colourless face more pale, she compelledmy wonder and admiration. "I can't stay a moment longer. You ought to come soon to see mother. Youknow she calls you '_L'ami. _' It is an excellent name, and she reallymeans it. And now _au revoir_; I must run. " She glanced vaguely down the broad walk--the hand she put out to meeluded my grasp by an unexpected upward movement, and rested upon myshoulder. Her red lips were slightly parted, not in a smile, however, but expressing a sort of startled pleasure. She gazed towards the gatesand said quickly, with a gasp-- "There! I knew it. Here he comes!" I understood that she must mean Mr. Razumov. A young man was walking upthe alley, without haste. His clothes were some dull shade of brown, andhe carried a stick. When my eyes first fell on him, his head was hangingon his breast as if in deep thought. While I was looking at him heraised it sharply, and at once stopped. I am certain he did, but thatpause was nothing more perceptible than a faltering check in his gait, instantaneously overcome. Then he continued his approach, looking at ussteadily. Miss Haldin signed to me to remain, and advanced a step or twoto meet him. I turned my head away from that meeting, and did not look at themagain till I heard Miss Haldin's voice uttering his name in the wayof introduction. Mr. Razumov was informed, in a warm, low tone, that, besides being a wonderful teacher, I was a great support "in our sorrowand distress. " Of course I was described also as an Englishman. Miss Haldin spokerapidly, faster than I have ever heard her speak, and that by contrastmade the quietness of her eyes more expressive. "I have given him my confidence, " she added, looking all the time at Mr. Razumov. That young man did, indeed, rest his gaze on Miss Haldin, but certainly did not look into her eyes which were so ready for him. Afterwards he glanced backwards and forwards at us both, while the faintcommencement of a forced smile, followed by the suspicion of a frown, vanished one after another; I detected them, though neither could havebeen noticed by a person less intensely bent upon divining him thanmyself. I don't know what Nathalie Haldin had observed, but my attentionseized the very shades of these movements. The attempted smile was givenup, the incipient frown was checked, and smoothed so that there shouldbe no sign; but I imagined him exclaiming inwardly-- "Her confidence! To this elderly person--this foreigner!" I imagined this because he looked foreign enough to me. I was upon thewhole favourably impressed. He had an air of intelligence and evensome distinction quite above the average of the students and otherinhabitants of the _Petite Russie_. His features were more decidedthan in the generality of Russian faces; he had a line of the jaw, a clean-shaven, sallow cheek; his nose was a ridge, and not a mereprotuberance. He wore the hat well down over his eyes, his dark haircurled low on the nape of his neck; in the ill-fitting brown clothesthere were sturdy limbs; a slight stoop brought out a satisfactorybreadth of shoulders. Upon the whole I was not disappointed. Studious--robust--shy. Before Miss Haldin had ceased speaking I felt the grip of his hand onmine, a muscular, firm grip, but unexpectedly hot and dry. Not a word oreven a mutter assisted this short and arid handshake. I intended to leave them to themselves, but Miss Haldin touched melightly on the forearm with a significant contact, conveying a distinctwish. Let him smile who likes, but I was only too ready to stay nearNathalie Haldin, and I am not ashamed to say that it was no smilingmatter to me. I stayed, not as a youth would have stayed, uplifted, asit were poised in the air, but soberly, with my feet on the ground andmy mind trying to penetrate her intention. She had turned to Razumov. "Well. This is the place. Yes, it is here that I meant you to come. Ihave been walking every day.... Don't excuse yourself--I understand. I am grateful to you for coming to-day, but all the same I cannotstay now. It is impossible. I must hurry off home. Yes, even with youstanding before me, I must run off. I have been too long away.... Youknow how it is?" These last words were addressed to me. I noticed that Mr. Razumov passedthe tip of his tongue over his lips just as a parched, feverish manmight do. He took her hand in its black glove, which closed on his, and held it--detained it quite visibly to me against a drawing-backmovement. "Thank you once more for--for understanding me, " she went on warmly. Heinterrupted her with a certain effect of roughness. I didn't like himspeaking to this frank creature so much from under the brim of his hat, as it were. And he produced a faint, rasping voice quite like a man witha parched throat. "What is there to thank me for? Understand you?... How did Iunderstand you?... You had better know that I understand nothing. I was aware that you wanted to see me in this garden. I could not comebefore. I was hindered. And even to-day, you see... Late. " She still held his hand. "I can, at any rate, thank you for not dismissing me from your mind asa weak, emotional girl. No doubt I want sustaining. I am very ignorant. But I can be trusted. Indeed I can!" "You are ignorant, " he repeated thoughtfully. He had raised his head, and was looking straight into her face now, while she held his hand. They stood like this for a long moment. She released his hand. "Yes. You did come late. It was good of you to come on the chance ofme having loitered beyond my time. I was talking with this good friendhere. I was talking of you. Yes, Kirylo Sidorovitch, of you. He was withme when I first heard of your being here in Geneva. He can tell youwhat comfort it was to my bewildered spirit to hear that news. He knewI meant to seek you out. It was the only object of my accepting theinvitation of Peter Ivanovitch.... "Peter Ivanovitch talked to you of me, " he interrupted, in thatwavering, hoarse voice which suggested a horribly dry throat. "Very little. Just told me your name, and that you had arrived here. Whyshould I have asked for more? What could he have told me that I did notknow already from my brother's letter? Three lines! And how much theymeant to me! I will show them to you one day, Kirylo Sidorovitch. Butnow I must go. The first talk between us cannot be a matter of fiveminutes, so we had better not begin.... " I had been standing a little aside, seeing them both in profile. At thatmoment it occurred to me that Mr. Razumov's face was older than his age. "If mother"--the girl had turned suddenly to me, "were to wake up in myabsence (so much longer than usual) she would perhaps question me. Sheseems to miss me more, you know, of late. She would want to know whatdelayed me--and, you see, it would be painful for me to dissemble beforeher. " I understood the point very well. For the same reason she checked whatseemed to be on Mr. Razumov's part a movement to accompany her. "No! No! I go alone, but meet me here as soon as possible. " Then to mein a lower, significant tone-- "Mother may be sitting at the window at this moment, looking downthe street. She must not know anything of Mr. Razumov's presence heretill--till something is arranged. " She paused before she added a littlelouder, but still speaking to me, "Mr. Razumov does not quite understandmy difficulty, but you know what it is. " V With a quick inclination of the head for us both, and an earnest, friendly glance at the young man, Miss Haldin left us covering our headsand looking after her straight, supple figure receding rapidly. Her walkwas not that hybrid and uncertain gliding affected by some women, buta frank, strong, healthy movement forward. Rapidly she increased thedistance--disappeared with suddenness at last. I discovered only thenthat Mr. Razumov, after ramming his hat well over his brow, was lookingme over from head to foot. I dare say I was a very unexpected fact forthat young Russian to stumble upon. I caught in his physiognomy, in hiswhole bearing, an expression compounded of curiosity and scorn, temperedby alarm--as though he had been holding his breath while I was notlooking. But his eyes met mine with a gaze direct enough. I saw then forthe first time that they were of a clear brown colour and fringed withthick black eyelashes. They were the youngest feature of his face. Notat all unpleasant eyes. He swayed slightly, leaning on his stick andgenerally hung in the wind. It flashed upon me that in leaving ustogether Miss Haldin had an intention--that something was entrusted tome, since, by a mere accident I had been found at hand. On this assumedground I put all possible friendliness into my manner. I cast aboutfor some right thing to say, and suddenly in Miss Haldin's last words Iperceived the clue to the nature of my mission. "No, " I said gravely, if with a smile, "you cannot be expected tounderstand. " His clean-shaven lip quivered ever so little before he said, as ifwickedly amused-- "But haven't you heard just now? I was thanked by that young lady forunderstanding so well. " I looked at him rather hard. Was there a hidden and inexplicable sneerin this retort? No. It was not that. It might have been resentment. Yes. But what had he to resent? He looked as though he had not slept verywell of late. I could almost feel on me the weight of his unrefreshed, motionless stare, the stare of a man who lies unwinking in the dark, angrily passive in the toils of disastrous thoughts. Now, when I knowhow true it was, I can honestly affirm that this was the effect heproduced on me. It was painful in a curiously indefinite way--for, of course, the definition comes to me now while I sit writing in thefullness of my knowledge. But this is what the effect was at that timeof absolute ignorance. This new sort of uneasiness which he seemed tobe forcing upon me I attempted to put down by assuming a conversational, easy familiarity. "That extremely charming and essentially admirable young girl (I am--asyou see--old enough to be frank in my expressions) was referring to herown feelings. Surely you must have understood that much?" He made such a brusque movement that he even tottered a little. "Must understand this! Not expected to understand that! I may have otherthings to do. And the girl is charming and admirable. Well--and if sheis! I suppose I can see that for myself. " This sally would have been insulting if his voice had not beenpractically extinct, dried up in his throat; and the rustling effort ofhis speech too painful to give real offence. I remained silent, checked between the obvious fact and the subtleimpression. It was open to me to leave him there and then; but the senseof having been entrusted with a mission, the suggestion of Miss Haldin'slast glance, was strong upon me. After a moment of reflection I said-- "Shall we walk together a little?" He shrugged his shoulders so violently that he tottered again. I saw itout of the corner of my eye as I moved on, with him at my elbow. Hehad fallen back a little and was practically out of my sight, unlessI turned my head to look at him. I did not wish to indispose himstill further by an appearance of marked curiosity. It might havebeen distasteful to such a young and secret refugee from under thepestilential shadow hiding the true, kindly face of his land. And theshadow, the attendant of his countrymen, stretching across the middle ofEurope, was lying on him too, darkening his figure to my mental vision. "Without doubt, " I said to myself, "he seems a sombre, even a desperaterevolutionist; but he is young, he may be unselfish and humane, capableof compassion, of.... " I heard him clear gratingly his parched throat, and became allattention. "This is beyond everything, " were his first words. "It is beyondeverything! I find you here, for no reason that I can understand, inpossession of something I cannot be expected to understand! A confidant!A foreigner! Talking about an admirable Russian girl. Is the admirablegirl a fool, I begin to wonder? What are you at? What is your object?" He was barely audible, as if his throat had no more resonance than a dryrag, a piece of tinder. It was so pitiful that I found it extremely easyto control my indignation. "When you have lived a little longer, Mr. Razumov, you will discoverthat no woman is an absolute fool. I am not a feminist, like thatillustrious author, Peter Ivanovitch, who, to say the truth, is not alittle suspect to me.... " He interrupted me, in a surprising note of whispering astonishment. "Suspect to you! Peter Ivanovitch suspect to you! To you!... " "Yes, in a certain aspect he is, " I said, dismissing my remark lightly. "As I was saying, Mr. Razumov, when you have lived long enough, you willlearn to discriminate between the noble trustfulness of a nature foreignto every meanness and the flattered credulity of some women; though eventhe credulous, silly as they may be, unhappy as they are sure to be, arenever absolute fools. It is my belief that no woman is ever completelydeceived. Those that are lost leap into the abyss with their eyes open, if all the truth were known. " "Upon my word, " he cried at my elbow, "what is it to me whether womenare fools or lunatics? I really don't care what you think of them. I--Iam not interested in them. I let them be. I am not a young man in anovel. How do you know that I want to learn anything about women?... What is the meaning of all this?" "The object, you mean, of this conversation, which I admit I have forcedupon you in a measure. " "Forced! Object!" he repeated, still keeping half a pace or so behindme. "You wanted to talk about women, apparently. That's a subject. ButI don't care for it. I have never.... In fact, I have had othersubjects to think about. " "I am concerned here with one woman only--a young girl--the sister ofyour dead friend--Miss Haldin. Surely you can think a little of her. What I meant from the first was that there is a situation which youcannot be expected to understand. " I listened to his unsteady footfalls by my side for the space of severalstrides. "I think that it may prepare the ground for your next interview withMiss Haldin if I tell you of it. I imagine that she might have hadsomething of the kind in her mind when she left us together. I believemyself authorized to speak. The peculiar situation I have alluded tohas arisen in the first grief and distress of Victor Haldin's execution. There was something peculiar in the circumstances of his arrest. You nodoubt know the whole truth.... " I felt my arm seized above the elbow, and next instant found myselfswung so as to face Mr. Razumov. "You spring up from the ground before me with this talk. Who the devilare you? This is not to be borne! Why! What for? What do you knowwhat is or is not peculiar? What have you to do with any confoundedcircumstances, or with anything that happens in Russia, anyway?" He leaned on his stick with his other hand, heavily; and when he let gomy arm, I was certain in my mind that he was hardly able to keep on hisfeet. "Let us sit down at one of these vacant tables, " I proposed, disregarding this display of unexpectedly profound emotion. It was notwithout its effect on me, I confess. I was sorry for him. "What tables? What are you talking about? Oh--the empty tables? Thetables there. Certainly. I will sit at one of the empty tables. " I led him away from the path to the very centre of the raft of dealsbefore the _chalet_. The Swiss couple were gone by that time. We werealone on the raft, so to speak. Mr. Razumov dropped into a chair, letfall his stick, and propped on his elbows, his head between his hands, stared at me persistently, openly, and continuously, while I signalledthe waiter and ordered some beer. I could not quarrel with this silentinspection very well, because, truth to tell, I felt somewhat guilty ofhaving been sprung on him with some abruptness--of having "sprung fromthe ground, " as he expressed it. While waiting to be served I mentioned that, born from parents settledin St. Petersburg, I had acquired the language as a child. The town Idid not remember, having left it for good as a boy of nine, but in lateryears I had renewed my acquaintance with the language. He listened, without as much as moving his eyes the least little bit. He had tochange his position when the beer came, and the instant draining of hisglass revived him. He leaned back in his chair and, folding his armsacross his chest, continued to stare at me squarely. It occurred to methat his clean-shaven, almost swarthy face was really of the very mobilesort, and that the absolute stillness of it was the acquired habit ofa revolutionist, of a conspirator everlastingly on his guard againstself-betrayal in a world of secret spies. "But you are an Englishman--a teacher of English literature, " hemurmured, in a voice that was no longer issuing from a parched throat. "I have heard of you. People told me you have lived here for years. " "Quite true. More than twenty years. And I have been assisting MissHaldin with her English studies. " "You have been reading English poetry with her, " he said, immovable now, like another man altogether, a complete stranger to the man of the heavyand uncertain footfalls a little while ago--at my elbow. "Yes, English poetry, " I said. "But the trouble of which I speak wascaused by an English newspaper. " He continued to stare at me. I don't think he was aware that the storyof the midnight arrest had been ferreted out by an English journalistand given to the world. When I explained this to him he mutteredcontemptuously, "It may have been altogether a lie. " "I should think you are the best judge of that, " I retorted, a littledisconcerted. "I must confess that to me it looks to be true in themain. " "How can you tell truth from lies?" he queried in his new, immovablemanner. "I don't know how you do it in Russia, " I began, rather nettled by hisattitude. He interrupted me. "In Russia, and in general everywhere--in a newspaper, for instance. Thecolour of the ink and the shapes of the letters are the same. " "Well, there are other trifles one can go by. The character of thepublication, the general verisimilitude of the news, the considerationof the motive, and so on. I don't trust blindly the accuracy of specialcorrespondents--but why should this one have gone to the trouble ofconcocting a circumstantial falsehood on a matter of no importance tothe world?" "That's what it is, " he grumbled. "What's going on with us is ofno importance--a mere sensational story to amuse the readers of thepapers--the superior contemptuous Europe. It is hateful to think of. Butlet them wait a bit!" He broke off on this sort of threat addressed to the western world. Disregarding the anger in his stare, I pointed out that whether thejournalist was well- or ill-informed, the concern of the friends ofthese ladies was with the effect the few lines of print in question hadproduced--the effect alone. And surely he must be counted as one ofthe friends--if only for the sake of his late comrade and intimatefellow-revolutionist. At that point I thought he was going to speakvehemently; but he only astounded me by the convulsive start of hiswhole body. He restrained himself, folded his loosened arms tighteracross his chest, and sat back with a smile in which there was a twitchof scorn and malice. "Yes, a comrade and an intimate.... Very well, " he said. "I ventured to speak to you on that assumption. And I cannot bemistaken. I was present when Peter Ivanovitch announced your arrivalhere to Miss Haldin, and I saw her relief and thankfulness when yourname was mentioned. Afterwards she showed me her brother's letter, and read out the few words in which he alludes to you. What else but afriend could you have been?" "Obviously. That's perfectly well known. A friend. Quite correct.... Go on. You were talking of some effect. " I said to myself: "He puts on the callousness of a stern revolutionist, the insensibility to common emotions of a man devoted to a destructiveidea. He is young, and his sincerity assumes a pose before a stranger, a foreigner, an old man. Youth must assert itself.... " As conciselyas possible I exposed to him the state of mind poor Mrs. Haldin had beenthrown into by the news of her son's untimely end. He listened--I felt it--with profound attention. His level staredeflected gradually downwards, left my face, and rested at last on theground at his feet. "You can enter into the sister's feelings. As you said, I have only reada little English poetry with her, and I won't make myself ridiculous inyour eyes by trying to speak of her. But you have seen her. She is oneof these rare human beings that do not want explaining. At least I thinkso. They had only that son, that brother, for a link with the widerworld, with the future. The very groundwork of active existence forNathalie Haldin is gone with him. Can you wonder then that she turnswith eagerness to the only man her brother mentions in his letters. Yourname is a sort of legacy. " "What could he have written of me?" he cried, in a low, exasperatedtone. "Only a few words. It is not for me to repeat them to you, Mr. Razumov;but you may believe my assertion that these words are forcible enough tomake both his mother and his sister believe implicitly in the worth ofyour judgment and in the truth of anything you may have to say to them. It's impossible for you now to pass them by like strangers. " I paused, and for a moment sat listening to the footsteps of the fewpeople passing up and down the broad central walk. While I was speakinghis head had sunk upon his breast above his folded arms. He raised itsharply. "Must I go then and lie to that old woman!" It was not anger; it was something else, something more poignant, andnot so simple. I was aware of it sympathetically, while I was profoundlyconcerned at the nature of that exclamation. "Dear me! Won't the truth do, then? I hoped you could have told themsomething consoling. I am thinking of the poor mother now. Your Russia_is_ a cruel country. " He moved a little in his chair. "Yes, " I repeated. "I thought you would have had something authentic totell. " The twitching of his lips before he spoke was curious. "What if it is not worth telling?" "Not worth--from what point of view? I don't understand. " "From every point of view. " I spoke with some asperity. "I should think that anything which could explain the circumstances ofthat midnight arrest.... " "Reported by a journalist for the amusement of the civilized Europe, " hebroke in scornfully. "Yes, reported.... But aren't they true? I can't make out yourattitude in this? Either the man is a hero to you, or... " He approached his face with fiercely distended nostrils close to mine sosuddenly that I had the greatest difficulty in not starting back. "You ask me! I suppose it amuses you, all this. Look here! I am aworker. I studied. Yes, I studied very hard. There is intelligencehere. " (He tapped his forehead with his finger-tips. ) "Don't you think aRussian may have sane ambitions? Yes--I had even prospects. Certainly! Ihad. And now you see me here, abroad, everything gone, lost, sacrificed. You see me here--and you ask! You see me, don't you?--sitting beforeyou. " He threw himself back violently. I kept outwardly calm. "Yes, I see you here; and I assume you are here on account of the Haldinaffair?" His manner changed. "You call it the Haldin affair--do you?" he observed indifferently. "I have no right to ask you anything, " I said. "I wouldn't presume. Butin that case the mother and the sister of him who must be a hero inyour eyes cannot be indifferent to you. The girl is a frank and generouscreature, having the noblest--well--illusions. You will tell hernothing--or you will tell her everything. But speaking now of the objectwith which I've approached you first, we have to deal with the morbidstate of the mother. Perhaps something could be invented under yourauthority as a cure for a distracted and suffering soul filled withmaternal affection. " His air of weary indifference was accentuated, I could not helpthinking, wilfully. "Oh yes. Something might, " he mumbled carelessly. He put his hand over his mouth to conceal a yawn. When he uncovered hislips they were smiling faintly. "Pardon me. This has been a long conversation, and I have not had muchsleep the last two nights. " This unexpected, somewhat insolent sort of apology had the merit ofbeing perfectly true. He had had no nightly rest to speak of since thatday when, in the grounds of the Chateau Borel, the sister of VictorHaldin had appeared before him. The perplexities and the complexterrors--I may say--of this sleeplessness are recorded in the documentI was to see later--the document which is the main source of thisnarrative. At the moment he looked to me convincingly tired, gone slackall over, like a man who has passed through some sort of crisis. "I have had a lot of urgent writing to do, " he added. I rose from my chair at once, and he followed my example, without haste, a little heavily. "I must apologize for detaining you so long, " I said. "Why apologize? One can't very well go to bed before night. And you didnot detain me. I could have left you at any time. " I had not stayed with him to be offended. "I am glad you have been sufficiently interested, " I said calmly. "Nomerit of mine, though--the commonest sort of regard for the mother ofyour friend was enough.... As to Miss Haldin herself, she at one timewas disposed to think that her brother had been betrayed to the policein some way. " To my great surprise Mr. Razumov sat down again suddenly. I stared athim, and I must say that he returned my stare without winking for quitea considerable time. "In some way, " he mumbled, as if he had not understood or could notbelieve his ears. "Some unforeseen event, a sheer accident might have done that, " I wenton. "Or, as she characteristically put it to me, the folly or weaknessof some unhappy fellow-revolutionist. " "Folly or weakness, " he repeated bitterly. "She is a very generous creature, " I observed after a time. The manadmired by Victor Haldin fixed his eyes on the ground. I turned away andmoved off, apparently unnoticed by him. I nourished no resentment ofthe moody brusqueness with which he had treated me. The sentiment I wascarrying away from that conversation was that of hopelessness. BeforeI had got fairly clear of the raft of chairs and tables he had rejoinedme. "H'm, yes!" I heard him at my elbow again. "But what do you think?" I did not look round even. "I think that you people are under a curse. " He made no sound. It was only on the pavement outside the gate that Iheard him again. "I should like to walk with you a little. " After all, I preferred this enigmatical young man to his celebratedcompatriot, the great Peter Ivanovitch. But I saw no reason for beingparticularly gracious. "I am going now to the railway station, by the shortest way from here, to meet a friend from England, " I said, for all answer to his unexpectedproposal. I hoped that something informing could come of it. As we stoodon the curbstone waiting for a tramcar to pass, he remarked gloomily-- "I like what you said just now. " "Do you?" We stepped off the pavement together. "The great problem, " he went on, "is to understand thoroughly the natureof the curse. " "That's not very difficult, I think. " "I think so too, " he agreed with me, and his readiness, strangelyenough, did not make him less enigmatical in the least. "A curse is an evil spell, " I tried him again. "And the important, thegreat problem, is to find the means to break it. " "Yes. To find the means. " That was also an assent, but he seemed to be thinking of something else. We had crossed diagonally the open space before the theatre, and beganto descend a broad, sparely frequented street in the direction of one ofthe smaller bridges. He kept on by my side without speaking for a longtime. "You are not thinking of leaving Geneva soon?" I asked. He was silent for so long that I began to think I had been indiscreet, and should get no answer at all. Yet on looking at him I almost believedthat my question had caused him something in the nature of positiveanguish. I detected it mainly in the clasping of his hands, in which heput a great force stealthily. Once, however, he had overcome that sortof agonizing hesitation sufficiently to tell me that he had no suchintention, he became rather communicative--at least relatively tothe former off-hand curtness of his speeches. The tone, too, was moreamiable. He informed me that he intended to study and also to write. Hewent even so far as to tell me he had been to Stuttgart. Stuttgart, Iwas aware, was one of the revolutionary centres. The directing committeeof one of the Russian parties (I can't tell now which) was located inthat town. It was there that he got into touch with the active work ofthe revolutionists outside Russia. "I have never been abroad before, " he explained, in a rather inanimatevoice now. Then, after a slight hesitation, altogether different fromthe agonizing irresolution my first simple question "whether he meant tostay in Geneva" had aroused, he made me an unexpected confidence-- "The fact is, I have received a sort of mission from them. " "Which will keep you here in Geneva?" "Yes. Here. In this odious.... " I was satisfied with my faculty for putting two and two together when Idrew the inference that the mission had something to do with theperson of the great Peter Ivanovitch. But I kept that surmise to myselfnaturally, and Mr. Razumov said nothing more for some considerable time. It was only when we were nearly on the bridge we had been making forthat he opened his lips again, abruptly-- "Could I see that precious article anywhere?" I had to think for a moment before I saw what he was referring to. "It has been reproduced in parts by the Press here. There are files tobe seen in various places. My copy of the English newspaper I have leftwith Miss Haldin, I remember, on the day after it reached me. I wassufficiently worried by seeing it lying on a table by the side of thepoor mother's chair for weeks. Then it disappeared. It was a relief, Iassure you. " He had stopped short. "I trust, " I continued, "that you will find time to see these ladiesfairly often--that you will make time. " He stared at me so queerly that I hardly know how to define his aspect. I could not understand it in this connexion at all. What ailed him? Iasked myself. What strange thought had come into his head? What visionof all the horrors that can be seen in his hopeless country had comesuddenly to haunt his brain? If it were anything connected with the fateof Victor Haldin, then I hoped earnestly he would keep it to himselffor ever. I was, to speak plainly, so shocked that I tried to conceal myimpression by--Heaven forgive me--a smile and the assumption of a lightmanner. "Surely, " I exclaimed, "that needn't cost you a great effort. " He turned away from me and leaned over the parapet of the bridge. For amoment I waited, looking at his back. And yet, I assure you, I was notanxious just then to look at his face again. He did not move at all. Hedid not mean to move. I walked on slowly on my way towards the station, and at the end of the bridge I glanced over my shoulder. No, he had notmoved. He hung well over the parapet, as if captivated by the smoothrush of the blue water under the arch. The current there is swift, extremely swift; it makes some people dizzy; I myself can never look atit for any length of time without experiencing a dread of being suddenlysnatched away by its destructive force. Some brains cannot resist thesuggestion of irresistible power and of headlong motion. It apparently had a charm for Mr. Razumov. I left him hanging far overthe parapet of the bridge. The way he had behaved to me could not be putdown to mere boorishness. There was something else under his scorn andimpatience. Perhaps, I thought, with sudden approach to hidden truth, it was the same thing which had kept him over a week, nearly ten daysindeed, from coming near Miss Haldin. But what it was I could not tell. PART THIRD I The water under the bridge ran violent and deep. Its slightly undulatingrush seemed capable of scouring out a channel for itself through solidgranite while you looked. But had it flowed through Razumov's breast, it could not have washed away the accumulated bitterness the wrecking ofhis life had deposited there. "What is the meaning of all this?" he thought, staring downwards atthe headlong flow so smooth and clean that only the passage of a faintair-bubble, or a thin vanishing streak of foam like a white hair, disclosed its vertiginous rapidity, its terrible force. "Why has thatmeddlesome old Englishman blundered against me? And what is this sillytale of a crazy old woman?" He was trying to think brutally on purpose, but he avoided any mentalreference to the young girl. "A crazy old woman, " he repeated tohimself. "It is a fatality! Or ought I to despise all this as absurd?But no! I am wrong! I can't afford to despise anything. An absurdity maybe the starting-point of the most dangerous complications. How is oneto guard against it? It puts to rout one's intelligence. The moreintelligent one is the less one suspects an absurdity. " A wave of wrath choked his thoughts for a moment. It even made his bodyleaning over the parapet quiver; then he resumed his silent thinking, like a secret dialogue with himself. And even in that privacy, histhought had some reservations of which he was vaguely conscious. "After all, this is not absurd. It is insignificant. It is absolutelyinsignificant--absolutely. The craze of an old woman--the fussyofficiousness of a blundering elderly Englishman. What devil put him inthe way? Haven't I treated him cavalierly enough? Haven't I just? That'sthe way to treat these meddlesome persons. Is it possible that he stillstands behind my back, waiting?" Razumov felt a faint chill run down his spine. It was not fear. He wascertain that it was not fear--not fear for himself--but it was, all thesame, a sort of apprehension as if for another, for some one heknew without being able to put a name on the personality. But therecollection that the officious Englishman had a train to meettranquillized him for a time. It was too stupid to suppose that heshould be wasting his time in waiting. It was unnecessary to look roundand make sure. But what did the man mean by his extraordinary rigmarole about thenewspaper, and that crazy old woman? he thought suddenly. It was adamnable presumption, anyhow, something that only an Englishman couldbe capable of. All this was a sort of sport for him--the sport ofrevolution--a game to look at from the height of his superiority. Andwhat on earth did he mean by his exclamation, "Won't the truth do?" Razumov pressed his folded arms to the stone coping over which he wasleaning with force. "Won't the truth do? The truth for the crazy oldmother of the--" The young man shuddered again. Yes. The truth would do! Apparentlyit would do. Exactly. And receive thanks, he thought, formulating theunspoken words cynically. "Fall on my neck in gratitude, no doubt, " hejeered mentally. But this mood abandoned him at once. He felt sad, asif his heart had become empty suddenly. "Well, I must be cautious, " heconcluded, coming to himself as though his brain had been awakened froma trance. "There is nothing, no one, too insignificant, too absurd to bedisregarded, " he thought wearily. "I must be cautious. " Razumov pushed himself with his hand away from the balustrade and, retracing his steps along the bridge, walked straight to his lodgings, where, for a few days, he led a solitary and retired existence. Heneglected Peter Ivanovitch, to whom he was accredited by the Stuttgartgroup; he never went near the refugee revolutionists, to whom he hadbeen introduced on his arrival. He kept out of that world altogether. And he felt that such conduct, causing surprise and arousing suspicion, contained an element of danger for himself. This is not to say that during these few days he never went out. I methim several times in the streets, but he gave me no recognition. Once, going home after an evening call on the ladies Haldin, I saw himcrossing the dark roadway of the Boulevard des Philosophes. He had abroad-brimmed soft hat, and the collar of his coat turned up. I watchedhim make straight for the house, but, instead of going in, he stoppedopposite the still lighted windows, and after a time went away down aside-street. I knew that he had not been to see Mrs. Haldin yet. Miss Haldin toldme he was reluctant; moreover, the mental condition of Mrs. Haldinhad changed. She seemed to think now that her son was living, and sheperhaps awaited his arrival. Her immobility in the great arm-chair infront of the window had an air of expectancy, even when the blind wasdown and the lamps lighted. For my part, I was convinced that she had received her death-stroke;Miss Haldin, to whom, of course, I said nothing of my forebodings, thought that no good would come from introducing Mr. Razumov just then, an opinion which I shared fully. I knew that she met the young man onthe Bastions. Once or twice I saw them strolling slowly up the mainalley. They met every day for weeks. I avoided passing that way duringthe hour when Miss Haldin took her exercise there. One day, however, in a fit of absent-mindedness, I entered the gates and came upon herwalking alone. I stopped to exchange a few words. Mr. Razumov failed toturn up, and we began to talk about him--naturally. "Did he tell you anything definite about your brother's activities--hisend?" I ventured to ask. "No, " admitted Miss Haldin, with some hesitation. "Nothing definite. " I understood well enough that all their conversations must have beenreferred mentally to that dead man who had brought them together. Thatwas unavoidable. But it was in the living man that she was interested. That was unavoidable too, I suppose. And as I pushed my inquiriesI discovered that he had disclosed himself to her as a by no meansconventional revolutionist, contemptuous of catchwords, of theories, ofmen too. I was rather pleased at that--but I was a little puzzled. "His mind goes forward, far ahead of the struggle, " Miss Haldinexplained. "Of course, he is an actual worker too, " she added. "And do you understand him?" I inquired point-blank. She hesitated again. "Not altogether, " she murmured. I perceived that he had fascinated her by an assumption of mysteriousreserve. "Do you know what I think?" she went on, breaking through her reserved, almost reluctant attitude: "I think that he is observing, studying me, to discover whether I am worthy of his trust.... " "And that pleases you?" She kept mysteriously silent for a moment. Then with energy, but in aconfidential tone-- "I am convinced;" she declared, "that this extraordinary man ismeditating some vast plan, some great undertaking; he is possessed byit--he suffers from it--and from being alone in the world. " "And so he's looking for helpers?" I commented, turning away my head. Again there was a silence. "Why not?" she said at last. The dead brother, the dying mother, the foreign friend, had falleninto a distant background. But, at the same time, Peter Ivanovitch wasabsolutely nowhere now. And this thought consoled me. Yet I saw thegigantic shadow of Russian life deepening around her like the darknessof an advancing night. It would devour her presently. I inquired afterMrs. Haldin--that other victim of the deadly shade. A remorseful uneasiness appeared in her frank eyes. Mother seemed noworse, but if I only knew what strange fancies she had sometimes! ThenMiss Haldin, glancing at her watch, declared that she could not stay amoment longer, and with a hasty hand-shake ran off lightly. Decidedly, Mr. Razumov was not to turn up that day. Incomprehensibleyouth! But less than an hour afterwards, while crossing the Place Mollard, Icaught sight of him boarding a South Shore tramcar. "He's going to the Chateau Borel, " I thought. After depositing Razumov at the gates of the Chateau Borel, some halfa mile or so from the town, the car continued its journey between twostraight lines of shady trees. Across the roadway in the sunshine ashort wooden pier jutted into the shallow pale water, which farther outhad an intense blue tint contrasting unpleasantly with the green orderlyslopes on the opposite shore. The whole view, with the harbour jettiesof white stone underlining lividly the dark front of the town tothe left, and the expanding space of water to the right with juttingpromontories of no particular character, had the uninspiring, glitteringquality of a very fresh oleograph. Razumov turned his back on it withcontempt. He thought it odious--oppressively odious--in its unsuggestivefinish: the very perfection of mediocrity attained at last aftercenturies of toil and culture. And turning his back on it, he faced theentrance to the grounds of the Chateau Borel. The bars of the central way and the wrought-iron arch between the darkweather-stained stone piers were very rusty; and, though fresh tracks ofwheels ran under it, the gate looked as if it had not been opened fora very long time. But close against the lodge, built of the same greystone as the piers (its windows were all boarded up), there was a smallside entrance. The bars of that were rusty too; it stood ajar and lookedas though it had not been closed for a long time. In fact, Razumov, trying to push it open a little wider, discovered it was immovable. "Democratic virtue. There are no thieves here, apparently, " he mutteredto himself, with displeasure. Before advancing into the grounds helooked back sourly at an idle working man lounging on a bench in theclean, broad avenue. The fellow had thrown his feet up; one of his armshung over the low back of the public seat; he was taking a day off inlordly repose, as if everything in sight belonged to him. "Elector! Eligible! Enlightened!" Razumov muttered to himself. "A brute, all the same. " Razumov entered the grounds and walked fast up the wide sweep ofthe drive, trying to think of nothing--to rest his head, to rest hisemotions too. But arriving at the foot of the terrace before the househe faltered, affected physically by some invisible interference. Themysteriousness of his quickened heart-beats startled him. He stoppedshort and looked at the brick wall of the terrace, faced with shallowarches, meagrely clothed by a few unthriving creepers, with an ill-keptnarrow flower-bed along its foot. "It is here!" he thought, with a sort of awe. "It is here--on this veryspot.... " He was tempted to flight at the mere recollection of his first meetingwith Nathalie Haldin. He confessed it to himself; but he did not move, and that not because he wished to resist an unworthy weakness, butbecause he knew that he had no place to fly to. Moreover, he couldnot leave Geneva. He recognized, even without thinking, that it wasimpossible. It would have been a fatal admission, an act of moralsuicide. It would have been also physically dangerous. Slowly heascended the stairs of the terrace, flanked by two stained greenishstone urns of funereal aspect. Across the broad platform, where a few blades of grass sprouted on thediscoloured gravel, the door of the house, with its ground-floor windowsshuttered, faced him, wide open. He believed that his approach hadbeen noted, because, framed in the doorway, without his tall hat, PeterIvanovitch seemed to be waiting for his approach. The ceremonious black frock-coat and the bared head of Europe's greatestfeminist accentuated the dubiousness of his status in the house rentedby Madame de S--, his Egeria. His aspect combined the formality of thecaller with the freedom of the proprietor. Florid and bearded and maskedby the dark blue glasses, he met the visitor, and at once took himfamiliarly under the arm. Razumov suppressed every sign of repugnance by an effort which theconstant necessity of prudence had rendered almost mechanical. Andthis necessity had settled his expression in a cast of austere, almostfanatical, aloofness. The "heroic fugitive, " impressed afresh by thesevere detachment of this new arrival from revolutionary Russia, took aconciliatory, even a confidential tone. Madame de S-- was resting aftera bad night. She often had bad nights. He had left his hat upstairs onthe landing and had come down to suggest to his young friend a strolland a good open-hearted talk in one of the shady alleys behind thehouse. After voicing this proposal, the great man glanced at the unmovedface by his side, and could not restrain himself from exclaiming-- "On my word, young man, you are an extraordinary person. " "I fancy you are mistaken, Peter Ivanovitch. If I were really anextraordinary person, I would not be here, walking with you in a gardenin Switzerland, Canton of Geneva, Commune of--what's the name of theCommune this place belongs to?... Never mind--the heart of democracy, anyhow. A fit heart for it; no bigger than a parched pea and about asmuch value. I am no more extraordinary than the rest of us Russians, wandering abroad. " But Peter Ivanovitch dissented emphatically-- "No! No! You are not ordinary. I have some experience of Russians whoare--well--living abroad. You appear to me, and to others too, a markedpersonality. " "What does he mean by this?" Razumov asked himself, turning his eyesfully on his companion. The face of Peter Ivanovitch expressed ameditative seriousness. "You don't suppose, Kirylo Sidorovitch, that I have not heard of youfrom various points where you made yourself known on your way here? Ihave had letters. " "Oh, we are great in talking about each other, " interjected Razumov, whohad listened with great attention. "Gossip, tales, suspicions, andall that sort of thing, we know how to deal in to perfection. Calumny, even. " In indulging in this sally, Razumov managed very well to conceal thefeeling of anxiety which had come over him. At the same time he wassaying to himself that there could be no earthly reason for anxiety. Hewas relieved by the evident sincerity of the protesting voice. "Heavens!" cried Peter Ivanovitch. "What are you talking about? Whatreason can _you_ have to... ?" The great exile flung up his arms as if words had failed him in sobertruth. Razumov was satisfied. Yet he was moved to continue in the samevein. "I am talking of the poisonous plants which flourish in the world ofconspirators, like evil mushrooms in a dark cellar. " "You are casting aspersions, " remonstrated Peter Ivanovitch, "which asfar as you are concerned--" "No!" Razumov interrupted without heat. "Indeed, I don't want to castaspersions, but it's just as well to have no illusions. " Peter Ivanovitch gave him an inscrutable glance of his dark spectacles, accompanied by a faint smile. "The man who says that he has no illusions has at least that one, " hesaid, in a very friendly tone. "But I see how it is, Kirylo Sidorovitch. You aim at stoicism. " "Stoicism! That's a pose of the Greeks and the Romans. Let's leaveit to them. We are Russians, that is--children; that is--sincere; thatis--cynical, if you like. But that's not a pose. " A long silence ensued. They strolled slowly under the lime-trees. Peter Ivanovitch had put his hands behind his back. Razumov felt theungravelled ground of the deeply shaded walk damp and as if slipperyunder his feet. He asked himself, with uneasiness, if he were saying theright things. The direction of the conversation ought to have been moreunder his control, he reflected. The great man appeared to be reflectingon his side too. He cleared his throat slightly, and Razumov felt atonce a painful reawakening of scorn and fear. "I am astonished, " began Peter Ivanovitch gently. "Supposing you areright in your indictment, how can you raise any question of calumnyor gossip, in your case? It is unreasonable. The fact is, KiryloSidorovitch, there is not enough known of you to give hold to gossip oreven calumny. Just now you are a man associated with a great deed, whichhad been hoped for, and tried for too, without success. People haveperished for attempting that which you and Haldin have done at last. Youcome to us out of Russia, with that prestige. But you cannot deny thatyou have not been communicative, Kirylo Sidorovitch. People you have metimparted their impressions to me; one wrote this, another that, but Iform my own opinions. I waited to see you first. You are a man outof the common. That's positively so. You are close, very close. Thistaciturnity, this severe brow, this something inflexible and secret inyou, inspires hopes and a little wonder as to what you may mean. Thereis something of a Brutus.... " "Pray spare me those classical allusions!" burst out Razumov nervously. "What comes Junius Brutus to do here? It is ridiculous! Do you mean tosay, " he added sarcastically, but lowering his voice, "that the Russianrevolutionists are all patricians and that I am an aristocrat?" Peter Ivanovitch, who had been helping himself with a few gestures, clasped his hands again behind his back, and made a few steps, pondering. "Not _all_ patricians, " he muttered at last. "But you, at any rate, areone of _us_. " Razumov smiled bitterly. "To be sure my name is not Gugenheimer, " he said in a sneering tone. "Iam not a democratic Jew. How can I help it? Not everybody has such luck. I have no name, I have no.... " The European celebrity showed a great concern. He stepped back a paceand his arms flew in front of his person, extended, deprecatory, almostentreating. His deep bass voice was full of pain. "But, my dear young friend!" he cried. "My dear Kirylo Sidorovitch.... " Razumov shook his head. "The very patronymic you are so civil as to use when addressing me Ihave no legal right to--but what of that? I don't wish to claim it. I have no father. So much the better. But I will tell you what: mymother's grandfather was a peasant--a serf. See how much I am one of_you_. I don't want anyone to claim me. But Russia _can't_ disown me. She cannot!" Razumov struck his breast with his fist. "I am _it_!" Peter Ivanovitch walked on slowly, his head lowered. Razumov followed, vexed with himself. That was not the right sort of talk. All sinceritywas an imprudence. Yet one could not renounce truth altogether, hethought, with despair. Peter Ivanovitch, meditating behind his darkglasses, became to him suddenly so odious that if he had had a knife, hefancied he could have stabbed him not only without compunction, butwith a horrible, triumphant satisfaction. His imagination dwelt onthat atrocity in spite of himself. It was as if he were becominglight-headed. "It is not what is expected of me, " he repeated tohimself. "It is not what is--I could get away by breaking the fasteningon the little gate I see there in the back wall. It is a flimsy lock. Nobody in the house seems to know he is here with me. Oh yes. The hat!These women would discover presently the hat he has left on the landing. They would come upon him, lying dead in this damp, gloomy shade--but Iwould be gone and no one could ever... Lord! Am I going mad?" he askedhimself in a fright. The great man was heard--musing in an undertone. "H'm, yes! That--no doubt--in a certain sense.... " He raised hisvoice. "There is a deal of pride about you.... " The intonation of Peter Ivanovitch took on a homely, familiar ring, acknowledging, in a way, Razumov's claim to peasant descent. "A great deal of pride, brother Kirylo. And I don't say that you have nojustification for it. I have admitted you had. I have ventured to alludeto the facts of your birth simply because I attach no mean importanceto it. You are one of us--_un des notres_. I reflect on that withsatisfaction. " "I attach some importance to it also, " said Razumov quietly. "I won'teven deny that it may have some importance for you too, " he continued, after a slight pause and with a touch of grimness of which he washimself aware, with some annoyance. He hoped it had escaped theperception of Peter Ivanovitch. "But suppose we talk no more about it?" "Well, we shall not--not after this one time, Kirylo Sidorovitch, "persisted the noble arch-priest of Revolution. "This shall be the lastoccasion. You cannot believe for a moment that I had the slightest ideaof wounding your feelings. You are clearly a superior nature--that's howI read you. Quite above the common--h'm--susceptibilities. But the factis, Kirylo Sidorovitch, I don't know your susceptibilities. Nobody, outof Russia, knows much of you--as yet!" "You have been watching me?" suggested Razumov. "Yes. " The great man had spoken in a tone of perfect frankness, but as theyturned their faces to each other Razumov felt baffled by the darkspectacles. Under their cover, Peter Ivanovitch hinted that he had feltfor some time the need of meeting a man of energy and character, in viewof a certain project. He said nothing more precise, however; and aftersome critical remarks upon the personalities of the various membersof the committee of revolutionary action in Stuttgart, he let theconversation lapse for quite a long while. They paced the alley from endto end. Razumov, silent too, raised his eyes from time to time to cast aglance at the back of the house. It offered no sign of being inhabited. With its grimy, weather-stained walls and all the windows shuttered fromtop to bottom, it looked damp and gloomy and deserted. It might verywell have been haunted in traditional style by some doleful, groaning, futile ghost of a middle-class order. The shades evoked, as worldlyrumour had it, by Madame de S-- to meet statesmen, diplomatists, deputies of various European Parliaments, must have been of anothersort. Razumov had never seen Madame de S-- but in the carriage. Peter Ivanovitch came out of his abstraction. "Two things I may say to you at once. I believe, first, that neither aleader nor any decisive action can come out of the dregs of a people. Now, if you ask me what are the dregs of a people--h'm--it would taketoo long to tell. You would be surprised at the variety of ingredientsthat for me go to the making up of these dregs--of that which ought, _must_ remain at the bottom. Moreover, such a statement might be subjectto discussion. But I can tell you what is _not_ the dregs. On that itis impossible for us to disagree. The peasantry of a people is not thedregs; neither is its highest class--well--the nobility. Reflect onthat, Kirylo Sidorovitch! I believe you are well fitted for reflection. Everything in a people that is not genuine, not its own by origin ordevelopment, is--well--dirt! Intelligence in the wrong place is that. Foreign-bred doctrines are that. Dirt! Dregs! The second thing I wouldoffer to your meditation is this: that for us at this moment there yawnsa chasm between the past and the future. It can never be bridged byforeign liberalism. All attempts at it are either folly or cheating. Bridged it can never be! It has to be filled up. " A sort of sinister jocularity had crept into the tones of the burlyfeminist. He seized Razumov's arm above the elbow, and gave it a slightshake. "Do you understand, enigmatical young man? It has got to be just filledup. " Razumov kept an unmoved countenance. "Don't you think that I have already gone beyond meditation on thatsubject?" he said, freeing his arm by a quiet movement which increasedthe distance a little between himself and Peter Ivanovitch, as they wenton strolling abreast. And he added that surely whole cartloads of wordsand theories could never fill that chasm. No meditation was necessary. A sacrifice of many lives could alone--He fell silent without finishingthe phrase. Peter Ivanovitch inclined his big hairy head slowly. After a moment heproposed that they should go and see if Madame de S-- was now visible. "We shall get some tea, " he said, turning out of the shaded gloomy walkwith a brisker step. The lady companion had been on the look out. Her dark skirt whisked intothe doorway as the two men came in sight round the corner. She ran offsomewhere altogether, and had disappeared when they entered the hall. Inthe crude light falling from the dusty glass skylight upon the blackand white tessellated floor, covered with muddy tracks, their footstepsechoed faintly. The great feminist led the way up the stairs. On thebalustrade of the first-floor landing a shiny tall hat reposed, rimupwards, opposite the double door of the drawing-room, haunted, itwas said, by evoked ghosts, and frequented, it was to be supposed, byfugitive revolutionists. The cracked white paint of the panels, thetarnished gilt of the mouldings, permitted one to imagine nothing butdust and emptiness within. Before turning the massive brass handle, Peter Ivanovitch gave his young companion a sharp, partly critical, partly preparatory glance. "No one is perfect, " he murmured discreetly. Thus, the possessor of arare jewel might, before opening the casket, warn the profane that nogem perhaps is flawless. He remained with his hand on the door-handle so long that Razumovassented by a moody "No. " "Perfection itself would not produce that effect, " pursued PeterIvanovitch, "in a world not meant for it. But you shall find there amind--no!--the quintessence of feminine intuition which will understandany perplexity you may be suffering from by the irresistible, enlightening force of sympathy. Nothing can remain obscure beforethat--that--inspired, yes, inspired penetration, this true light offemininity. " The gaze of the dark spectacles in its glossy steadfastness gave hisface an air of absolute conviction. Razumov felt a momentary shrinkingbefore that closed door. "Penetration? Light, " he stammered out. "Do you mean some sort ofthought-reading?" Peter Ivanovitch seemed shocked. "I mean something utterly different, " he retorted, with a faint, pityingsmile. Razumov began to feel angry, very much against his wish. "This is very mysterious, " he muttered through his teeth. "You don't object to being understood, to being guided?" queried thegreat feminist. Razumov exploded in a fierce whisper. "In what sense? Be pleased to understand that I am a serious person. Whodo you take me for?" They looked at each other very closely. Razumov's temper was cooledby the impenetrable earnestness of the blue glasses meeting his stare. Peter Ivanovitch turned the handle at last. "You shall know directly, " he said, pushing the door open. A low-pitched grating voice was heard within the room. "_Enfin_. " In the doorway, his black-coated bulk blocking the view, PeterIvanovitch boomed in a hearty tone with something boastful in it. "Yes. Here I am!" He glanced over his shoulder at Razumov, who waited for him to move on. "And I am bringing you a proved conspirator--a real one this time. _Unvrai celui la_. " This pause in the doorway gave the "proved conspirator" time to makesure that his face did not betray his angry curiosity and his mentaldisgust. These sentiments stand confessed in Mr. Razumov's memorandum ofhis first interview with Madame de S--. The very words I use in mynarrative are written where their sincerity cannot be suspected. Therecord, which could not have been meant for anyone's eyes but his own, was not, I think, the outcome of that strange impulse of indiscretioncommon to men who lead secret lives, and accounting for the invariableexistence of "compromising documents" in all the plots and conspiraciesof history. Mr. Razumov looked at it, I suppose, as a man looks athimself in a mirror, with wonder, perhaps with anguish, with anger ordespair. Yes, as a threatened man may look fearfully at his own face inthe glass, formulating to himself reassuring excuses for his appearancemarked by the taint of some insidious hereditary disease. II The Egeria of the "Russian Mazzini" produced, at first view, a strongeffect by the death-like immobility of an obviously painted face. Theeyes appeared extraordinarily brilliant. The figure, in a close-fittingdress, admirably made, but by no means fresh, had an elegant stiffness. The rasping voice inviting him to sit down; the rigidity of the uprightattitude with one arm extended along the back of the sofa, the whitegleam of the big eyeballs setting off the black, fathomless stare of theenlarged pupils, impressed Razumov more than anything he had seen sincehis hasty and secret departure from St. Petersburg. A witch in Parisianclothes, he thought. A portent! He actually hesitated in his advance, and did not even comprehend, at first, what the rasping voice wassaying. "Sit down. Draw your chair nearer me. There--" He sat down. At close quarters the rouged cheekbones, the wrinkles, thefine lines on each side of the vivid lips, astounded him. He was beingreceived graciously, with a smile which made him think of a grinningskull. "We have been hearing about you for some time. " He did not know what to say, and murmured some disconnected words. Thegrinning skull effect vanished. "And do you know that the general complaint is that you have shownyourself very reserved everywhere?" Razumov remained silent for a time, thinking of his answer. "I, don't you see, am a man of action, " he said huskily, glancingupwards. Peter Ivanovitch stood in portentous expectant silence by the side ofhis chair. A slight feeling of nausea came over Razumov. What could bethe relations of these two people to each other? She like a galvanizedcorpse out of some Hoffman's Tale--he the preacher of feminist gospelfor all the world, and a super-revolutionist besides! This ancient, painted mummy with unfathomable eyes, and this burly, bull-necked, deferential... What was it? Witchcraft, fascination.... "It's forher money, " he thought. "She has millions!" The walls, the floor of the room were bare like a barn. The few piecesof furniture had been discovered in the garrets and dragged down intoservice without having been properly dusted, even. It was the refuse thebanker's widow had left behind her. The windows without curtains had anindigent, sleepless look. In two of them the dirty yellowy-white blindshad been pulled down. All this spoke, not of poverty, but of sordidpenuriousness. The hoarse voice on the sofa uttered angrily-- "You are looking round, Kirylo Sidorovitch. I have been shamefullyrobbed, positively ruined. " A rattling laugh, which seemed beyond her control, interrupted her for amoment. "A slavish nature would find consolation in the fact that the principalrobber was an exalted and almost a sacrosanct person--a Grand Duke, infact. Do you understand, Mr. Razumov? A Grand Duke--No! You have no ideawhat thieves those people are! Downright thieves!" Her bosom heaved, but her left arm remained rigidly extended along theback of the couch. "You will only upset yourself, " breathed out a deep voice, which, toRazumov's startled glance, seemed to proceed from under the steadyspectacles of Peter Ivanovitch, rather than from his lips, which hadhardly moved. "What of hat? I say thieves! _Voleurs! Voleurs!_" Razumov was quite confounded by this unexpected clamour, which had init something of wailing and croaking, and more than a suspicion ofhysteria. "_Voleurs! Voleurs! Vol_.... " "No power on earth can rob you of your genius, " shouted Peter Ivanovitchin an overpowering bass, but without stirring, without a gesture of anykind. A profound silence fell. Razumov remained outwardly impassive. "What is the meaning of thisperformance?" he was asking himself. But with a preliminary soundof bumping outside some door behind him, the lady companion, in athreadbare black skirt and frayed blouse, came in rapidly, walking onher heels, and carrying in both hands a big Russian samovar, obviouslytoo heavy for her. Razumov made an instinctive movement to help, whichstartled her so much that she nearly dropped her hissing burden. Shemanaged, however, to land it on the table, and looked so frightened thatRazumov hastened to sit down. She produced then, from an adjacent room, four glass tumblers, a teapot, and a sugar-basin, on a black iron tray. The rasping voice asked from the sofa abruptly-- "_Les gateaux_? Have you remembered to bring the cakes?" Peter Ivanovitch, without a word, marched out on to the landing, andreturned instantly with a parcel wrapped up in white glazed paper, whichhe must have extracted from the interior of his hat. With imperturbablegravity he undid the string and smoothed the paper open on a part of thetable within reach of Madame de S--'s hand. The lady companion pouredout the tea, then retired into a distant corner out of everybody'ssight. From time to time Madame de S-- extended a claw-like hand, glittering with costly rings, towards the paper of cakes, took up oneand devoured it, displaying her big false teeth ghoulishly. Meantime shetalked in a hoarse tone of the political situation in the Balkans. Shebuilt great hopes on some complication in the peninsula for arousinga great movement of national indignation in Russia against "thesethieves--thieves thieves. " "You will only upset yourself, " Peter Ivanovitch interposed, raisinghis glassy gaze. He smoked cigarettes and drank tea in silence, continuously. When he had finished a glass, he flourished his handabove his shoulder. At that signal the lady companion, ensconced in hercorner, with round eyes like a watchful animal, would dart out to thetable and pour him out another tumblerful. Razumov looked at her once or twice. She was anxious, tremulous, thoughneither Madame de S-- nor Peter Ivanovitch paid the slightest attentionto her. "What have they done between them to that forlorn creature?"Razumov asked himself. "Have they terrified her out of her senses withghosts, or simply have they only been beating her?" When she gave himhis second glass of tea, he noticed that her lips trembled in the mannerof a scared person about to burst into speech. But of course she saidnothing, and retired into her corner, as if hugging to herself the smileof thanks he gave her. "She may be worth cultivating, " thought Razumov suddenly. He was calming down, getting hold of the actuality into which he hadbeen thrown--for the first time perhaps since Victor Haldin had enteredhis room... And had gone out again. He was distinctly aware of beingthe object of the famous--or notorious--Madame de S--'s ghastlygraciousness. Madame de S-- was pleased to discover that this young man was differentfrom the other types of revolutionist members of committees, secretemissaries, vulgar and unmannerly fugitive professors, rough students, ex-cobblers with apostolic faces, consumptive and ragged enthusiasts, Hebrew youths, common fellows of all sorts that used to come and goaround Peter Ivanovitch--fanatics, pedants, proletarians all. It waspleasant to talk to this young man of notably good appearance--forMadame de S-- was not always in a mystical state of mind. Razumov'staciturnity only excited her to a quicker, more voluble utterance. Itstill dealt with the Balkans. She knew all the statesmen of that region, Turks, Bulgarians, Montenegrins, Roumanians, Greeks, Armenians, andnondescripts, young and old, the living and the dead. With some money anintrigue could be started which would set the Peninsula in a blaze andoutrage the sentiment of the Russian people. A cry of abandoned brotherscould be raised, and then, with the nation seething with indignation, acouple of regiments or so would be enough to begin a military revolutionin St. Petersburg and make an end of these thieves.... "Apparently I've got only to sit still and listen, " the silent Razumovthought to himself. "As to that hairy and obscene brute" (in such termsdid Mr. Razumov refer mentally to the popular expounder of a feministicconception of social state), "as to him, for all his cunning he tooshall speak out some day. " Razumov ceased to think for a moment. Then a sombre-toned reflectionformulated itself in his mind, ironical and bitter. "I have the gift ofinspiring confidence. " He heard himself laughing aloud. It was like agoad to the painted, shiny-eyed harridan on the sofa. "You may well laugh!" she cried hoarsely. "What else can one do!Perfect swindlers--and what base swindlers at that! CheapGermans--Holstein-Gottorps! Though, indeed, it's hardly safe to say whoand what they are. A family that counts a creature like Catherine theGreat in its ancestry--you understand!" "You are only upsetting yourself, " said Peter Ivanovitch, patiently butin a firm tone. This admonition had its usual effect on the Egeria. Shedropped her thick, discoloured eyelids and changed her position on thesofa. All her angular and lifeless movements seemed completely automaticnow that her eyes were closed. Presently she opened them very full. Peter Ivanovitch drank tea steadily, without haste. "Well, I declare!" She addressed Razumov directly. "The people who haveseen you on your way here are right. You are very reserved. You haven'tsaid twenty words altogether since you came in. You let nothing of yourthoughts be seen in your face either. " "I have been listening, Madame, " said Razumov, using French for thefirst time, hesitatingly, not being certain of his accent. But it seemedto produce an excellent impression. Madame de S-- looked meaningly intoPeter Ivanovitch's spectacles, as if to convey her conviction of thisyoung man's merit. She even nodded the least bit in his direction, andRazumov heard her murmur under her breath the words, "Later on inthe diplomatic service, " which could not but refer to the favourableimpression he had made. The fantastic absurdity of it revolted himbecause it seemed to outrage his ruined hopes with the vision of amock-career. Peter Ivanovitch, impassive as though he were deaf, dranksome more tea. Razumov felt that he must say something. "Yes, " he began deliberately, as if uttering a meditated opinion. "Clearly. Even in planning a purely military revolution the temper ofthe people should be taken into account. " "You have understood me perfectly. The discontent should bespiritualized. That is what the ordinary heads of revolutionarycommittees will not understand. They aren't capable of it. For instance, Mordatiev was in Geneva last month. Peter Ivanovitch brought him here. You know Mordatiev? Well, yes--you have heard of him. They call himan eagle--a hero! He has never done half as much as you have. Neverattempted--not half.... " Madame de S-- agitated herself angularly on the sofa. "We, of course, talked to him. And do you know what he said to me?'What have we to do with Balkan intrigues? We must simply extirpate thescoundrels. ' Extirpate is all very well--but what then? The imbecile!I screamed at him, 'But you must spiritualize--don't youunderstand?--spiritualize the discontent. '... " She felt nervously in her pocket for a handkerchief; she pressed it toher lips. "Spiritualize?" said Razumov interrogatively, watching her heavingbreast. The long ends of an old black lace scarf she wore over her headslipped off her shoulders and hung down on each side of her ghastly rosycheeks. "An odious creature, " she burst out again. "Imagine a man who takes fivelumps of sugar in his tea.... Yes, I said spiritualize! How else canyou make discontent effective and universal?" "Listen to this, young man. " Peter Ivanovitch made himself heardsolemnly. "Effective and universal. " Razumov looked at him suspiciously. "Some say hunger will do that, " he remarked. "Yes. I know. Our people are starving in heaps. But you can't makefamine universal. And it is not despair that we want to create. There isno moral support to be got out of that. It is indignation.... " Madame de S-- let her thin, extended arm sink on her knees. "I am not a Mordatiev, " began Razumov. "Bien sur!" murmured Madame de S--. "Though I too am ready to say extirpate, extirpate! But in my ignoranceof political work, permit me to ask: A Balkan--well--intrigue, wouldn'tthat take a very long time?" Peter Ivanovitch got up and moved off quietly, to stand with his face tothe window. Razumov heard a door close; he turned his head and perceivedthat the lady companion had scuttled out of the room. "In matters of politics I am a supernaturalist. " Madame de S-- brokethe silence harshly. Peter Ivanovitch moved away from the window and struck Razumov lightlyon the shoulder. This was a signal for leaving, but at the same time headdressed Madame de S-- in a peculiar reminding tone--- "Eleanor!" Whatever it meant, she did not seem to hear him. She leaned back in thecorner of the sofa like a wooden figure. The immovable peevishness ofthe face, framed in the limp, rusty lace, had a character of cruelty. "As to extirpating, " she croaked at the attentive Razumov, "there isonly one class in Russia which must be extirpated. Only one. And thatclass consists of only one family. You understand me? That one familymust be extirpated. " Her rigidity was frightful, like the rigor of a corpse galvanized intoharsh speech and glittering stare by the force of murderous hate. Thesight fascinated Razumov--yet he felt more self-possessed than atany other time since he had entered this weirdly bare room. He wasinterested. But the great feminist by his side again uttered hisappeal-- "Eleanor!" She disregarded it. Her carmine lips vaticinated with an extraordinaryrapidity. The liberating spirit would use arms before which rivers wouldpart like Jordan, and ramparts fall down like the walls of Jericho. Thedeliverance from bondage would be effected by plagues and by signs, bywonders and by war. The women.... "Eleanor!" She ceased; she had heard him at last. She pressed her hand to herforehead. "What is it? Ah yes! That girl--the sister of.... " It was Miss Haldin that she meant. That young girl and her mother hadbeen leading a very retired life. They were provincial ladies--were theynot? The mother had been very beautiful--traces were left yet. PeterIvanovitch, when he called there for the first time, was greatlystruck.... But the cold way they received him was really surprising. "He is one of our national glories, " Madams de S-- cried out, withsudden vehemence. "All the world listens to him. " "I don't know these ladies, " said Razumov loudly rising from his chair. "What are you saying, Kirylo Sidorovitch? I understand that she wastalking to you here, in the garden, the other day. " "Yes, in the garden, " said Razumov gloomily. Then, with an effort, "Shemade herself known to me. " "And then ran away from us all, " Madame de S-- continued, with ghastlyvivacity. "After coming to the very door! What a peculiar proceeding!Well, I have been a shy little provincial girl at one time. Yes, Razumov" (she fell into this familiarity intentionally, with anappalling grimace of graciousness. Razumov gave a perceptible start), "yes, that's my origin. A simple provincial family. "You are a marvel, " Peter Ivanovich uttered. But it was to Razumov that she gave her death's-head smile. Her tone wasquite imperious. "You must bring the wild young thing here. She is wanted. I reckon uponyour success--mind!" "She is not a wild young thing, " muttered Razumov, in a surly voice. "Well, then--that's all the same. She may be one of these youngconceited democrats. Do you know what I think? I think she is very muchlike you in character. There is a smouldering fire of scorn in you. Youare darkly self-sufficient, but I can see your very soul. " Her shiny eyes had a dry, intense stare, which, missing Razumov, gavehim an absurd notion that she was looking at something which was visibleto her behind him. He cursed himself for an impressionable fool, andasked with forced calmness-- "What is it you see? Anything resembling me?" She moved her rigidly set face from left to right, negatively. "Some sort of phantom in my image?" pursued Razumov slowly. "For, Isuppose, a soul when it is seen is just that. A vain thing. There arephantoms of the living as well as of the dead. " The tenseness of Madame de S--'s stare had relaxed, and now she lookedat Razumov in a silence that became disconcerting. "I myself have had an experience, " he stammered out, as if compelled. "I've seen a phantom once. " The unnaturally red lips moved to frame aquestion harshly. "Of a dead person?" "No. Living. " "A friend?" "No. " "An enemy?" "I hated him. " "Ah! It was not a woman, then?" "A woman!" repeated Razumov, his eyes looking straight into the eyesof Madame de S--. "Why should it have been a woman? And why thisconclusion? Why should I not have been able to hate a woman?" As a matter of fact, the idea of hating a woman was new to him. At thatmoment he hated Madame de S--. But it was not exactly hate. It was morelike the abhorrence that may be caused by a wooden or plaster figure ofa repulsive kind. She moved no more than if she were such a figure; evenher eyes, whose unwinking stare plunged into his own, though shining, were lifeless, as though they were as artificial as her teeth. For thefirst time Razumov became aware of a faint perfume, but faint as it wasit nauseated him exceedingly. Again Peter Ivanovitch tapped him slightlyon the shoulder. Thereupon he bowed, and was about to turn away whenhe received the unexpected favour of a bony, inanimate hand extended tohim, with the two words in hoarse French-- "_Au revoir!_" He bowed over the skeleton hand and left the room, escorted by the greatman, who made him go out first. The voice from the sofa cried afterthem-- "You remain here, _Pierre_. " "Certainly, _ma chere amie_. " But he left the room with Razumov, shutting the door behind him. Thelanding was prolonged into a bare corridor, right and left, desolateperspectives of white and gold decoration without a strip of carpet. Thevery light, pouring through a large window at the end, seemed dusty; anda solitary speck reposing on the balustrade of white marble--the silktop-hat of the great feminist--asserted itself extremely, black andglossy in all that crude whiteness. Peter Ivanovitch escorted the visitor without opening his lips. Evenwhen they had reached the head of the stairs Peter Ivanovitch did notbreak the silence. Razumov's impulse to continue down the flight and outof the house without as much as a nod abandoned him suddenly. He stoppedon the first step and leaned his back against the wall. Below him thegreat hall with its chequered floor of black and white seemed absurdlylarge and like some public place where a great power of resonance awaitsthe provocation of footfalls and voices. As if afraid of awakening theloud echoes of that empty house, Razumov adopted a low tone. "I really have no mind to turn into a dilettante spiritualist. " Peter Ivanovitch shook his head slightly, very serious. "Or spend my time in spiritual ecstasies or sublime meditations upon thegospel of feminism, " continued Razumov. "I made my way here for my shareof action--action, most respected Peter Ivanovitch! It was not the greatEuropean writer who attracted me, here, to this odious town of liberty. It was somebody much greater. It was the idea of the chief whichattracted me. There are starving young men in Russia who believe inyou so much that it seems the only thing that keeps them alive in theirmisery. Think of that, Peter Ivanovitch! No! But only think of that!" The great man, thus entreated, perfectly motionless and silent, was thevery image of patient, placid respectability. "Of course I don't speak of the people. They are brutes, " added Razumov, in the same subdued but forcible tone. At this, a protesting murmurissued from the "heroic fugitive's" beard. A murmur of authority. "Say--children. " "No! Brutes!" Razumov insisted bluntly. "But they are sound, they are innocent, " the great man pleaded in awhisper. "As far as that goes, a brute is sound enough. " Razumov raised hisvoice at last. "And you can't deny the natural innocence of a brute. But what's the use of disputing about names? You just try to give thesechildren the power and stature of men and see what they will be like. You just give it to them and see.... But never mind. I tell you, Peter Ivanovitch, that half a dozen young men do not come togethernowadays in a shabby student's room without your name being whispered, not as a leader of thought, but as a centre of revolutionaryenergies--the centre of action. What else has drawn me near you, do youthink? It is not what all the world knows of you, surely. It's preciselywhat the world at large does not know. I was irresistibly drawn-let ussay impelled, yes, impelled; or, rather, compelled, driven--driven, "repented Razumov loudly, and ceased, as if startled by the hollowreverberation of the word "driven" along two bare corridors and in thegreat empty hall. Peter Ivanovitch did not seem startled in the least. The young mancould not control a dry, uneasy laugh. The great revolutionist remainedunmoved with an effect of commonplace, homely superiority. "Curse him, " said Razumov to himself, "he is waiting behind hisspectacles for me to give myself away. " Then aloud, with a satanicenjoyment of the scorn prompting him to play with the greatness of thegreat man-- "Ah, Peter Ivanovitch, if you only knew the force which drew--no, which_drove_ me towards you! The irresistible force. " He did not feel any desire to laugh now. This time Peter Ivanovitchmoved his head sideways, knowingly, as much as to say, "Don't I?" Thisexpressive movement was almost imperceptible. Razumov went on in secretderision-- "All these days you have been trying to read me, Peter Ivanovitch. Thatis natural. I have perceived it and I have been frank. Perhaps you maythink I have not been very expansive? But with a man like you it was notneeded; it would have looked like an impertinence, perhaps. And besides, we Russians are prone to talk too much as a rule. I have always feltthat. And yet, as a nation, we are dumb. I assure you that I am notlikely to talk to you so much again--ha! ha!--" Razumov, still keeping on the lower step, came a little nearer to thegreat man. "You have been condescending enough. I quite understood it was to leadme on. You must render me the justice that I have not tried to please. Ihave been impelled, compelled, or rather sent--let us say sent--towardsyou for a work that no one but myself can do. You would call it aharmless delusion: a ridiculous delusion at which you don't even smile. It is absurd of me to talk like this, yet some day you shall rememberthese words, I hope. Enough of this. Here I stand before you-confessed!But one thing more I must add to complete it: a mere blind tool I cannever consent to be. " Whatever acknowledgment Razumov was prepared for, he was not preparedto have both his hands seized in the great man's grasp. The swiftness ofthe movement was aggressive enough to startle. The burly feminist couldnot have been quicker had his purpose been to jerk Razumov treacherouslyup on the landing and bundle him behind one of the numerous closeddoors near by. This idea actually occurred to Razumov; his hands beingreleased after a darkly eloquent squeeze, he smiled, with a beatingheart, straight at the beard and the spectacles hiding that impenetrableman. He thought to himself (it stands confessed in his handwriting), "I won'tmove from here till he either speaks or turns away. This is a duel. "Many seconds passed without a sign or sound. "Yes, yes, " the great man said hurriedly, in subdued tones, as if thewhole thing had been a stolen, breathless interview. "Exactly. Cometo see us here in a few days. This must be gone into deeply--deeply, between you and me. Quite to the bottom. To the... And, by the by, you must bring along Natalia Victorovna--you know, the Haldin girl.... "Am I to take this as my first instruction from you?" inquired Razumovstiffly. Peter Ivanovitch seemed perplexed by this new attitude. "Ah! h'm! You are naturally the proper person--_la personne indiquee_. Every one shall be wanted presently. Every one. " He bent down from the landing over Razumov, who had lowered his eyes. "The moment of action approaches, " he murmured. Razumov did not look up. He did not move till he heard the door of thedrawing-room close behind the greatest of feminists returning to hispainted Egeria. Then he walked down slowly into the hall. The door stoodopen, and the shadow of the house was lying aslant over the greatestpart of the terrace. While crossing it slowly, he lifted his hat andwiped his damp forehead, expelling his breath with force to get rid ofthe last vestiges of the air he had been breathing inside. He looked atthe palms of his hands, and rubbed them gently against his thighs. He felt, bizarre as it may seem, as though another self, an independentsharer of his mind, had been able to view his whole person verydistinctly indeed. "This is curious, " he thought. After a while heformulated his opinion of it in the mental ejaculation: "Beastly!"This disgust vanished before a marked uneasiness. "This is an effect ofnervous exhaustion, " he reflected with weary sagacity. "How am I togo on day after day if I have no more power of resistance--moralresistance?" He followed the path at the foot of the terrace. "Moral resistance, moral resistance;" he kept on repeating these words mentally. Moralendurance. Yes, that was the necessity of the situation. An immenselonging to make his way out of these grounds and to the other end of thetown, of throwing himself on his bed and going to sleep for hours, swepteverything clean out of his mind for a moment. "Is it possible that I ambut a weak creature after all?" he asked himself, in sudden alarm. "Eh!What's that?" He gave a start as if awakened from a dream. He even swayed a littlebefore recovering himself. "Ah! You stole away from us quietly to walk about here, " he said. The lady companion stood before him, but how she came there he had notthe slightest idea. Her folded arms were closely cherishing the cat. "I have been unconscious as I walked, it's a positive fact, " saidRazumov to himself in wonder. He raised his hat with marked civility. The sallow woman blushed duskily. She had her invariably scaredexpression, as if somebody had just disclosed to her some terrible news. But she held her ground, Razumov noticed, without timidity. "She isincredibly shabby, " he thought. In the sunlight her black costume lookedgreenish, with here and there threadbare patches where the stuff seemeddecomposed by age into a velvety, black, furry state. Her very hair andeyebrows looked shabby. Razumov wondered whether she were sixty yearsold. Her figure, though, was young enough. He observed that she did notappear starved, but rather as if she had been fed on unwholesome scrapsand leavings of plates. Razumov smiled amiably and moved out of her way. She turned her head tokeep her scared eyes on him. "I know what you have been told in there, " she affirmed, withoutpreliminaries. Her tone, in contrast with her manner, had anunexpectedly assured character which put Razumov at his ease. "Do you? You must have heard all sorts of talk on many occasions inthere. " She varied her phrase, with the same incongruous effect of positiveness. "I know to a certainty what you have been told to do. " "Really?" Razumov shrugged his shoulders a little. He was about to passon with a bow, when a sudden thought struck him. "Yes. To be sure! Inyour confidential position you are aware of many things, " he murmured, looking at the cat. That animal got a momentary convulsive hug from the lady companion. "Everything was disclosed to me a long time ago, " she said. "Everything, " Razumov repeated absently. "Peter Ivanovitch is an awful despot, " she jerked out. Razumov went on studying the stripes on the grey fur of the cat. "An iron will is an integral part of such a temperament. How else couldhe be a leader? And I think that you are mistaken in--" "There!" she cried. "You tell me that I am mistaken. But I tell you allthe same that he cares for no one. " She jerked her head up. "Don't youbring that girl here. That's what you have been told to do--to bringthat girl here. Listen to me; you had better tie a stone round her neckand throw her into the lake. " Razumov had a sensation of chill and gloom, as if a heavy cloud hadpassed over the sun. "The girl?" he said. "What have I to do with her?" "But you have been told to bring Nathalie Haldin here. Am I not right?Of course I am right. I was not in the room, but I know. I know PeterIvanovitch sufficiently well. He is a great man. Great men are horrible. Well, that's it. Have nothing to do with her. That's the best youcan do, unless you want her to become like me--disillusioned!Disillusioned!" "Like you, " repeated Razumov, glaring at her face, as devoid of allcomeliness of feature and complexion as the most miserable beggar isof money. He smiled, still feeling chilly: a peculiar sensation whichannoyed him. "Disillusioned as to Peter Ivanovitch! Is that all you havelost?" She declared, looking frightened, but with immense conviction, "PeterIvanovitch stands for everything. " Then she added, in another tone, "Keep the girl away from this house. " "And are you absolutely inciting me to disobey Peter Ivanovitch justbecause--because you are disillusioned?" She began to blink. "Directly I saw you for the first time I was comforted. You took yourhat off to me. You looked as if one could trust you. Oh!" She shrank before Razumov's savage snarl of, "I have heard somethinglike this before. " She was so confounded that she could do nothing but blink for a longtime. "It was your humane manner, " she explained plaintively. "I have beenstarving for, I won't say kindness, but just for a little civility, forI don't know how long. And now you are angry.... " "But no, on the contrary, " he protested. "I am very glad you trust me. It's possible that later on I may... " "Yes, if you were to get ill, " she interrupted eagerly, "or meet somebitter trouble, you would find I am not a useless fool. You have only tolet me know. I will come to you. I will indeed. And I will stick to you. Misery and I are old acquaintances--but this life here is worse thanstarving. " She paused anxiously, then in a voice for the first time sounding reallytimid, she added-- "Or if you were engaged in some dangerous work. Sometimes a humblecompanion--I would not want to know anything. I would follow you withjoy. I could carry out orders. I have the courage. " Razumov looked attentively at the scared round eyes, at the withered, sallow, round cheeks. They were quivering about the corners of themouth. "She wants to escape from here, " he thought. "Suppose I were to tell you that I am engaged in dangerous work?" heuttered slowly. She pressed the cat to her threadbare bosom with a breathlessexclamation. "Ah!" Then not much above a whisper: "Under PeterIvanovitch?" "No, not under Peter Ivanovitch. " He read admiration in her eyes, and made an effort to smile. "Then--alone?" He held up his closed hand with the index raised. "Like this finger, " hesaid. She was trembling slightly. But it occurred to Razumov that they mighthave been observed from the house, and he became anxious to be gone. Sheblinked, raising up to him her puckered face, and seemed to beg mutelyto be told something more, to be given a word of encouragement for herstarving, grotesque, and pathetic devotion. "Can we be seen from the house?" asked Razumov confidentially. She answered, without showing the slightest surprise at the question-- "No, we can't, on account of this end of the stables. " And she added, with an acuteness which surprised Razumov, "But anybody looking out ofan upstairs window would know that you have not passed through the gatesyet. " "Who's likely to spy out of the window?" queried Razumov. "PeterIvanovitch?" She nodded. "Why should he trouble his head?" "He expects somebody this afternoon. " "You know the person?" "There's more than one. " She had lowered her eyelids. Razumov looked at her curiously. "Of course. You hear everything they say. " She murmured without any animosity-- "So do the tables and chairs. " He understood that the bitterness accumulated in the heart of thathelpless creature had got into her veins, and, like some subtle poison, had decomposed her fidelity to that hateful pair. It was a great pieceof luck for him, he reflected; because women are seldom venal after themanner of men, who can be bought for material considerations. She wouldbe a good ally, though it was not likely that she was allowed to hearas much as the tables and chairs of the Chateau Borel. That could not beexpected. But still.... And, at any rate, she could be made to talk. When she looked up her eyes met the fixed stare of Razumov, who began tospeak at once. "Well, well, dear... But upon my word, I haven't the pleasure ofknowing your name yet. Isn't it strange?" For the first time she made a movement of the shoulders. "Is it strange? No one is told my name. No one cares. No one talks tome, no one writes to me. My parents don't even know if I'm alive. I haveno use for a name, and I have almost forgotten it myself. " Razumov murmured gravely, "Yes, but still... " She went on much slower, with indifference-- "You may call me Tekla, then. My poor Andrei called me so. I was devotedto him. He lived in wretchedness and suffering, and died in misery. Thatis the lot of all us Russians, nameless Russians. There is nothing elsefor us, and no hope anywhere, unless... " "Unless what?" "Unless all these people with names are done away with, " she finished, blinking and pursing up her lips. "It will be easier to call you Tekla, as you direct me, " saidRazumov, "if you consent to call me Kirylo, when we are talking likethis--quietly--only you and me. " And he said to himself, "Here's a being who must be terribly afraid ofthe world, else she would have run away from this situation before. "Then he reflected that the mere fact of leaving the great man abruptlywould make her a suspect. She could expect no support or countenancefrom anyone. This revolutionist was not fit for an independentexistence. She moved with him a few steps, blinking and nursing the cat with asmall balancing movement of her arms. "Yes--only you and I. That's how I was with my poor Andrei, only he wasdying, killed by these official brutes--while you! You are strong. Youkill the monsters. You have done a great deed. Peter Ivanovitch himselfmust consider you. Well--don't forget me--especially if you are goingback to work in Russia. I could follow you, carrying anything thatwas wanted--at a distance, you know. Or I could watch for hours at thecorner of a street if necessary, --in wet or snow--yes, I could--all daylong. Or I could write for you dangerous documents, lists of names orinstructions, so that in case of mischance the handwriting could notcompromise you. And you need not be afraid if they were to catch me. Iwould know how to keep dumb. We women are not so easily daunted by pain. I heard Peter Ivanovitch say it is our blunt nerves or something. We canstand it better. And it's true; I would just as soon bite my tongue outand throw it at them as not. What's the good of speech to me? Who wouldever want to hear what I could say? Ever since I closed the eyes of mypoor Andrei I haven't met a man who seemed to care for the sound ofmy voice. I should never have spoken to you if the very first time youappeared here you had not taken notice of me so nicely. I could not helpspeaking of you to that charming dear girl. Oh, the sweet creature! Andstrong! One can see that at once. If you have a heart don't let her sether foot in here. Good-bye!" Razumov caught her by the arm. Her emotion at being thus seizedmanifested itself by a short struggle, after which she stood still, notlooking at him. "But you can tell me, " he spoke in her ear, "why they--these people inthat house there--are so anxious to get hold of her?" She freed herself to turn upon him, as if made angry by the question. "Don't you understand that Peter Ivanovitch must direct, inspire, influence? It is the breath of his life. There can never be too manydisciples. He can't bear thinking of anyone escaping him. And a woman, too! There is nothing to be done without women, he says. He has writtenit. He--" The young man was staring at her passion when she broke off suddenly andran away behind the stable. III Razumov, thus left to himself, took the direction of the gate. But onthis day of many conversations, he discovered that very probably hecould not leave the grounds without having to hold another one. Stepping in view from beyond the lodge appeared the expected visitorsof Peter Ivanovitch: a small party composed of two men and a woman. Theynoticed him too, immediately, and stopped short as if to consult. But ina moment the woman, moving aside, motioned with her arm to the two men, who, leaving the drive at once, struck across the large neglectedlawn, or rather grass-plot, and made directly for the house. The womanremained on the path waiting for Razumov's approach. She had recognizedhim. He, too, had recognized her at the first glance. He had been madeknown to her at Zurich, where he had broken his journey while on hisway from Dresden. They had been much together for the three days of hisstay. She was wearing the very same costume in which he had seen her first. Ablouse of crimson silk made her noticeable at a distance. With thatshe wore a short brown skirt and a leather belt. Her complexion wasthe colour of coffee and milk, but very clear; her eyes black andglittering, her figure erect. A lot of thick hair, nearly white, wasdone up loosely under a dusty Tyrolese hat of dark cloth, which seemedto have lost some of its trimmings. The expression of her face was grave, intent; so grave that Razumov, after approaching her close, felt obliged to smile. She greeted him witha manly hand-grasp. "What! Are you going away?" she exclaimed. "How is that, Razumov?" "I am going away because I haven't been asked to stay, " Razumovanswered, returning the pressure of her hand with much less force thanshe had put into it. She jerked her head sideways like one who understands. MeantimeRazumov's eyes had strayed after the two men. They were crossing thegrass-plot obliquely, without haste. The shorter of the two was buttonedup in a narrow overcoat of some thin grey material, which came nearlyto his heels. His companion, much taller and broader, wore a short, close-fitting jacket and tight trousers tucked into shabby top-boots. The woman, who had sent them out of Razumov's way apparently, spoke in abusinesslike voice. "I had to come rushing from Zurich on purpose to meet the train and takethese two along here to see Peter Ivanovitch. I've just managed it. " "Ah! indeed, " Razumov said perfunctorily, and very vexed at her stayingbehind to talk to him "From Zurich--yes, of course. And these two, theycome from.... " She interrupted, without emphasis-- "From quite another direction. From a distance, too. A considerabledistance. " Razumov shrugged his shoulders. The two men from a distance, afterhaving reached the wall of the terrace, disappeared suddenly at its footas if the earth had opened to swallow them up. "Oh, well, they have just come from America. " The woman in the crimsonblouse shrugged her shoulders too a little before making that statement. "The time is drawing near, " she interjected, as if speaking to herself. "I did not tell them who you were. Yakovlitch would have wanted toembrace you. " "Is that he with the wisp of hair hanging from his chin, in the longcoat?" "You've guessed aright. That's Yakovlitch. " "And they could not find their way here from the station without youcoming on purpose from Zurich to show it to them? Verily, without womenwe can do nothing. So it stands written, and apparently so it is. " He was conscious of an immense lassitude under his effort to besarcastic. And he could see that she had detected it with those steady, brilliant black eyes. "What is the matter with you?" "I don't know. Nothing. I've had a devil of a day. " She waited, with her black eyes fixed on his face. Then-- "What of that? You men are so impressionable and self-conscious. One dayis like another, hard, hard--and there's an end of it, till the greatday comes. I came over for a very good reason. They wrote to warn PeterIvanovitch of their arrival. But where from? Only from Cherbourg on abit of ship's notepaper. Anybody could have done that. Yakovlitch haslived for years and years in America. I am the only one at hand who hadknown him well in the old days. I knew him very well indeed. So PeterIvanovitch telegraphed, asking me to come. It's natural enough, is itnot?" "You came to vouch for his identity?" inquired Razumov. "Yes. Something of the kind. Fifteen years of a life like his makechanges in a man. Lonely, like a crow in a strange country. When I thinkof Yakovlitch before he went to America--" The softness of the low tone caused Razumov to glance at her sideways. She sighed; her black eyes were looking away; she had plunged thefingers of her right hand deep into the mass of nearly white hair, andstirred them there absently. When she withdrew her hand the little hatperched on the top of her head remained slightly tilted, with a queerinquisitive effect, contrasting strongly with the reminiscent murmurthat escaped her. "We were not in our first youth even then. But a man is a child always. " Razumov thought suddenly, "They have been living together. " Then aloud-- "Why didn't you follow him to America?" he asked point-blank. She looked up at him with a perturbed air. "Don't you remember what was going on fifteen years ago? It was a timeof activity. The Revolution has its history by this time. You are init and yet you don't seem to know it. Yakovlitch went away then on amission; I went back to Russia. It had to be so. Afterwards there wasnothing for him to come back to. " "Ah! indeed, " muttered Razumov, with affected surprise. "Nothing!" "What are you trying to insinuate" she exclaimed quickly. "Well, andwhat then if he did get discouraged a little.... " "He looks like a Yankee, with that goatee hanging from his chin. Aregular Uncle Sam, " growled Razumov. "Well, and you? You who went toRussia? You did not get discouraged. " "Never mind. Yakovlitch is a man who cannot be doubted. He, at any rate, is the right sort. " Her black, penetrating gaze remained fixed upon Razumov while she spoke, and for a moment afterwards. "Pardon me, " Razumov inquired coldly, "but does it mean that you, forinstance, think that I am not the right sort?" She made no protest, gave no sign of having heard the question;she continued looking at him in a manner which he judged not to beabsolutely unfriendly. In Zurich when he passed through she had takenhim under her charge, in a way, and was with him from morning till nightduring his stay of two days. She took him round to see several people. At first she talked to him a great deal and rather unreservedly, butalways avoiding all reference to herself; towards the middle of thesecond day she fell silent, attending him zealously as before, and evenseeing him off at the railway station, where she pressed his hand firmlythrough the lowered carriage window, and, stepping back without a word, waited till the train moved. He had noticed that she was treated withquiet regard. He knew nothing of her parentage, nothing of her privatehistory or political record; he judged her from his own private point ofview, as being a distinct danger in his path. "Judged" is not perhapsthe right word. It was more of a feeling, the summing up of slightimpressions aided by the discovery that he could not despise her as hedespised all the others. He had not expected to see her again so soon. No, decidedly; her expression was not unfriendly. Yet he perceived anacceleration in the beat of his heart. The conversation could not beabandoned at that point. He went on in accents of scrupulous inquiry-- "Is it perhaps because I don't seem to accept blindly every developmentof the general doctrine--such for instance as the feminism of our greatPeter Ivanovitch? If that is what makes me suspect, then I can only sayI would scorn to be a slave even to an idea. " She had been looking at him all the time, not as a listener looksat one, but as if the words he chose to say were only of secondaryinterest. When he finished she slipped her hand, by a sudden and decidedmovement, under his arm and impelled him gently towards the gate of thegrounds. He felt her firmness and obeyed the impulsion at once, just asthe other two men had, a moment before, obeyed unquestioningly the waveof her hand. They made a few steps like this. "No, Razumov, your ideas are probably all right, " she said. "You may bevaluable--very valuable. What's the matter with you is that you don'tlike us. " She released him. He met her with a frosty smile. "Am I expected then to have love as well as convictions?" She shrugged her shoulders. "You know very well what I mean. People have been thinking you not quitewhole-hearted. I have heard that opinion from one side and another. ButI have understood you at the end of the first day.... " Razumov interrupted her, speaking steadily. "I assure you that your perspicacity is at fault here. " "What phrases he uses!" she exclaimed parenthetically. "Ah! KiryloSidorovitch, you like other men are fastidious, full of self-love andafraid of trifles. Moreover, you had no training. What you want is tobe taken in hand by some woman. I am sorry I am not staying here a fewdays. I am going back to Zurich to-morrow, and shall take Yakovlitchwith me most likely. " This information relieved Razumov. "I am sorry too, " he said. "But, all the same, I don't think youunderstand me. " He breathed more freely; she did not protest, but asked, "And how didyou get on with Peter Ivanovitch? You have seen a good deal of eachother. How is it between you two?" Not knowing what answer to make, the young man inclined his head slowly. Her lips had been parted in expectation. She pressed them together, andseemed to reflect. "That's all right. " This had a sound of finality, but she did not leave him. It wasimpossible to guess what she had in her mind. Razumov muttered-- "It is not of me that you should have asked that question. In a momentyou shall see Peter Ivanovitch himself, and the subject will come upnaturally. He will be curious to know what has delayed you so long inthis garden. " "No doubt Peter Ivanovitch will have something to say to me. Severalthings. He may even speak of you--question me. Peter Ivanovitch isinclined to trust me generally. " "Question you? That's very likely. " She smiled, half serious. "Well--and what shall I say to him?" "I don't know. You may tell him of your discovery. " "What's that?" "Why--my lack of love for.... " "Oh! That's between ourselves, " she interrupted, it was hard to saywhether in jest or earnest. "I see that you want to tell Peter Ivanovitch something in my favour, "said Razumov, with grim playfulness. "Well, then, you can tell him thatI am very much in earnest about my mission. I mean to succeed. " "You have been given a mission!" she exclaimed quickly. "It amounts to that. I have been told to bring about a certain event. " She looked at him searchingly. "A mission, " she repeated, very grave and interested all at once. "Whatsort of mission?" "Something in the nature of propaganda work. " "Ah! Far away from here?" "No. Not very far, " said Razumov, restraining a sudden desire to laugh, although he did not feel joyous in the least. "So!" she said thoughtfully. "Well, I am not asking questions. It'ssufficient that Peter Ivanovitch should know what each of us is doing. Everything is bound to come right in the end. " "You think so?" "I don't think, young man. I just simply believe it. " "And is it to Peter Ivanovitch that you owe that faith?" She did not answer the question, and they stood idle, silent, as ifreluctant to part with each other. "That's just like a man, " she murmured at last. "As if it were possibleto tell how a belief comes to one. " Her thin Mephistophelian eyebrowsmoved a little. "Truly there are millions of people in Russia who wouldenvy the life of dogs in this country. It is a horror and a shame toconfess this even between ourselves. One must believe for very pity. This can't go on. No! It can't go on. For twenty years I have beencoming and going, looking neither to the left nor to the right.... What are you smiling to yourself for? You are only at the beginning. Youhave begun well, but you just wait till you have trodden every particleof yourself under your feet in your comings and goings. For that iswhat it comes to. You've got to trample down every particle of your ownfeelings; for stop you cannot, you must not. I have been young, too--butperhaps you think that I am complaining-eh?" "I don't think anything of the sort, " protested Razumov indifferently. "I dare say you don't, you dear superior creature. You don't care. " She plunged her fingers into the bunch of hair on the left side, and that brusque movement had the effect of setting the Tyrolese hatstraight on her head. She frowned under it without animosity, in themanner of an investigator. Razumov averted his face carelessly. "You men are all alike. You mistake luck for merit. You do it in goodfaith too! I would not be too hard on you. It's masculine nature. You men are ridiculously pitiful in your aptitude to cherish childishillusions down to the very grave. There are a lot of us who have been atwork for fifteen years--I mean constantly--trying one way after another, underground and above ground, looking neither to the right nor to theleft! I can talk about it. I have been one of these that neverrested.... There! What's the use of talking.... Look at my grey hairs!And here two babies come along--I mean you and Haldin--you come alongand manage to strike a blow at the very first try. " At the name of Haldin falling from the rapid and energetic lips of thewoman revolutionist, Razumov had the usual brusque consciousness of theirrevocable. But in all the months which had passed over his head hehad become hardened to the experience. The consciousness was no longeraccompanied by the blank dismay and the blind anger of the early days. He had argued himself into new beliefs; and he had made for himself amental atmosphere of gloomy and sardonic reverie, a sort of murkymedium through which the event appeared like a featureless shadow havingvaguely the shape of a man; a shape extremely familiar, yet utterlyinexpressive, except for its air of discreet waiting in the dusk. It wasnot alarming. "What was he like?" the woman revolutionist asked unexpectedly. "What was he like?" echoed Razumov, making a painful effort not to turnupon her savagely. But he relieved himself by laughing a little while hestole a glance at her out of the corners of his eyes. This reception ofher inquiry disturbed her. "How like a woman, " he went on. "What is the good of concerning yourselfwith his appearance? Whatever it was, he is removed beyond all feminineinfluences now. " A frown, making three folds at the root of her nose, accentuated theMephistophelian slant of her eyebrows. "You suffer, Razumov, " she suggested, in her low, confident voice. "What nonsense!" Razumov faced the woman fairly. "But now I think of it, I am not sure that he is beyond the influence of one woman at least; theone over there--Madame de S--, you know. Formerly the dead were allowedto rest, but now it seems they are at the beck and call of a crazy oldharridan. We revolutionists make wonderful discoveries. It is true thatthey are not exactly our own. We have nothing of our own. But couldn'tthe friend of Peter Ivanovitch satisfy your feminine curiosity? Couldn'tshe conjure him up for you?"--he jested like a man in pain. Her concentrated frowning expression relaxed, and she said, a littlewearily, "Let us hope she will make an effort and conjure up some teafor us. But that is by no means certain. I am tired, Razumov. " "You tired! What a confession! Well, there has been tea up there. I hadsome. If you hurry on after Yakovlitch, instead of wasting your timewith such an unsatisfactory sceptical person as myself, you may find theghost of it--the cold ghost of it--still lingering in the temple. But asto you being tired I can hardly believe it. We are not supposed to be. We mustn't, We can't. The other day I read in some paper or other analarmist article on the tireless activity of the revolutionary parties. It impresses the world. It's our prestige. " "He flings out continually these flouts and sneers;" the woman in thecrimson blouse spoke as if appealing quietly to a third person, buther black eyes never left Razumov's face. "And what for, pray? Simplybecause some of his conventional notions are shocked, some of hispetty masculine standards. You might think he was one of these nervoussensitives that come to a bad end. And yet, " she went on, after a short, reflective pause and changing the mode of her address, "and yet Ihave just learned something which makes me think that you are a man ofcharacter, Kirylo Sidorovitch. Yes! indeed--you are. " The mysterious positiveness of this assertion startled Razumov. Theireyes met. He looked away and, through the bars of the rusty gate, staredat the clean, wide road shaded by the leafy trees. An electric tramcar, quite empty, ran along the avenue with a metallic rustle. It seemed tohim he would have given anything to be sitting inside all alone. Hewas inexpressibly weary, weary in every fibre of his body, but he hada reason for not being the first to break off the conversation. At anyinstant, in the visionary and criminal babble of revolutionists, somemomentous words might fall on his ear; from her lips, from anybody'slips. As long as he managed to preserve a clear mind and to keep downhis irritability there was nothing to fear. The only condition ofsuccess and safety was indomitable will-power, he reminded himself. He longed to be on the other side of the bars, as though he wereactually a prisoner within the grounds of this centre of revolutionaryplots, of this house of folly, of blindness, of villainy and crime. Silently he indulged his wounded spirit in a feeling of immense moraland mental remoteness. He did not even smile when he heard her repeatthe words-- "Yes! A strong character. " He continued to gaze through the bars like a moody prisoner, notthinking of escape, but merely pondering upon the faded memories offreedom. "If you don't look out, " he mumbled, still looking away, "you shallcertainly miss seeing as much as the mere ghost of that tea. " She was not to be shaken off in such a way. As a matter of fact he hadnot expected to succeed. "Never mind, it will be no great loss. I mean the missing of her tea andonly the ghost of it at that. As to the lady, you must understand thatshe has her positive uses. See _that_, Razumov. " He turned his head at this imperative appeal and saw the womanrevolutionist making the motions of counting money into the palm of herhand. "That's what it is. You see?" Razumov uttered a slow "I see, " and returned to his prisoner-like gazingupon the neat and shady road. "Material means must be obtained in some way, and this is easier thanbreaking into banks. More certain too. There! I am joking.... What ishe muttering to himself now?" she cried under her breath. "My admiration of Peter Ivanovitch's devoted self-sacrifice, that's all. It's enough to make one sick. " "Oh, you squeamish, masculine creature. Sick! Makes him sick! And whatdo you know of the truth of it? There's no looking into the secrets ofthe heart. Peter Ivanovitch knew her years ago, in his worldly days, when he was a young officer in the Guards. It is not for us to judgean inspired person. That's where you men have an advantage. You areinspired sometimes both in thought and action. I have always admittedthat when you _are_ inspired, when you manage to throw off yourmasculine cowardice and prudishness you are not to be equalled by us. Only, how seldom.... Whereas the silliest woman can always be madeof use. And why? Because we have passion, unappeasable passion.... Ishould like to know what he is smiling at?" "I am not smiling, " protested Razumov gloomily. "Well! How is one to call it? You made some sort of face. Yes, I know!You men can love here and hate there and desire something or other--andyou make a great to-do about it, and you call it passion! Yes! Whileit lasts. But we women are in love with love, and with hate, with thesevery things I tell you, and with desire itself. That's why we can't bebribed off so easily as you men. In life, you see, there is not muchchoice. You have either to rot or to burn. And there is not one of us, painted or unpainted, that would not rather burn than rot. " She spoke with energy, but in a matter-of-fact tone. Razumov's attentionhad wandered away on a track of its own--outside the bars of thegate--but not out of earshot. He stuck his hands into the pockets of hiscoat. "Rot or burn! Powerfully stated. Painted or unpainted. Very vigorous. Painted or... Do tell me--she would be infernally jealous of him, wouldn't she?" "Who? What? The Baroness? Eleanor Maximovna? Jealous of PeterIvanovitch? Heavens! Are these the questions the man's mind is runningon? Such a thing is not to be thought of. " "Why? Can't a wealthy old woman be jealous? Or, are they all purespirits together?" "But what put it into your head to ask such a question?" she wondered. "Nothing. I just asked. Masculine frivolity, if you like. " "I don't like, " she retorted at once. "It is not the time to befrivolous. What are you flinging your very heart against? Or, perhaps, you are only playing a part. " Razumov had felt that woman's observation of him like a physicalcontact, like a hand resting lightly on his shoulder. At that moment hereceived the mysterious impression of her having made up her mind for acloser grip. He stiffened himself inwardly to bear it without betrayinghimself. "Playing a Part, " he repeated, presenting to her an unmoved profile. "Itmust be done very badly since you see through the assumption. " She watched him, her forehead drawn into perpendicular folds, the thinblack eyebrows diverging upwards like the antennae of an insect. Headded hardly audibly-- "You are mistaken. I am doing it no more than the rest of us. " "Who is doing it?" she snapped out. "Who? Everybody, " he said impatiently. "You are a materialist, aren'tyou?" "Eh! My dear soul, I have outlived all that nonsense. " "But you must remember the definition of Cabanis: 'Man is a digestivetube. ' I imagine now.... " "I spit on him. " "What? On Cabanis? All right. But you can't ignore the importance of agood digestion. The joy of life--you know the joy of life?--depends ona sound stomach, whereas a bad digestion inclines one to scepticism, breeds black fancies and thoughts of death. These are facts ascertainedby physiologists. Well, I assure you that ever since I came over fromRussia I have been stuffed with indigestible foreign concoctions of themost nauseating kind--pah!" "You are joking, " she murmured incredulously. He assented in a detachedway. "Yes. It is all a joke. It's hardly worth while talking to a man likeme. Yet for that very reason men have been known to take their ownlife. " "On the contrary, I think it is worth while talking to you. " He kept her in the corner of his eye. She seemed to be thinking out somescathing retort, but ended by only shrugging her shoulders slightly. "Shallow talk! I suppose one must pardon this weakness in you, " shesaid, putting a special accent on the last word. There was somethinganxious in her indulgent conclusion. Razumov noted the slightest shades in this conversation, which he hadnot expected, for which he was not prepared. That was it. "I was notprepared, " he said to himself. "It has taken me unawares. " It seemed tohim that if he only could allow himself to pant openly like a dog for atime this oppression would pass away. "I shall never be found prepared, "he thought, with despair. He laughed a little, saying as lightly as hecould-- "Thanks. I don't ask for mercy. " Then affecting a playful uneasiness, "But aren't you afraid Peter Ivanovitch might suspect us of plottingsomething unauthorized together by the gate here?" "No, I am not afraid. You are quite safe from suspicions while you arewith me, my dear young man. " The humorous gleam in her black eyes wentout. "Peter Ivanovitch trusts me, " she went on, quite austerely. "Hetakes my advice. I am his right hand, as it were, in certain mostimportant things.... That amuses you what? Do you think I amboasting?" "God forbid. I was just only saying to myself that Peter Ivanovitchseems to have solved the woman question pretty completely. " Even as he spoke he reproached himself for his words, for his tone. Allday long he had been saying the wrong things. It was folly, worse thanfolly. It was weakness; it was this disease of perversity overcoming hiswill. Was this the way to meet speeches which certainly contained thepromise of future confidences from that woman who apparently had agreat store of secret knowledge and so much influence? Why give her thispuzzling impression? But she did not seem inimical. There was no angerin her voice. It was strangely speculative. "One does not know what to think, Razumov. You must have bittensomething bitter in your cradle. " Razumov gave her a sidelong glance. "H'm! Something bitter? That's an explanation, " he muttered. "Only itwas much later. And don't you think, Sophia Antonovna, that you and Icome from the same cradle?" The woman, whose name he had forced himself at last to pronounce (he hadexperienced a strong repugnance in letting it pass his lips), the womanrevolutionist murmured, after a pause-- "You mean--Russia?" He disdained even to nod. She seemed softened, her black eyes verystill, as though she were pursuing the simile in her thoughts to allits tender associations. But suddenly she knitted her brows in aMephistophelian frown. "Yes. Perhaps no wonder, then. Yes. One lies there lapped up in evils, watched over by beings that are worse than ogres, ghouls, and vampires. They must be driven away, destroyed utterly. In regard of that tasknothing else matters if men and women are determined and faithful. That's how I came to feel in the end. The great thing is not to quarrelamongst ourselves about all sorts of conventional trifles. Rememberthat, Razumov. " Razumov was not listening. He had even lost the sense of being watchedin a sort of heavy tranquillity. His uneasiness, his exasperation, hisscorn were blunted at last by all these trying hours. It seemed to himthat now they were blunted for ever. "I am a match for them all, "he thought, with a conviction too firm to be exulting. The womanrevolutionist had ceased speaking; he was not looking at her; there wasno one passing along the road. He almost forgot that he was not alone. He heard her voice again, curt, businesslike, and yet betraying thehesitation which had been the real reason of her prolonged silence. "I say, Razumov!" Razumov, whose face was turned away from her, made a grimace like a manwho hears a false note. "Tell me: is it true that on the very morning of the deed you actuallyattended the lectures at the University?" An appreciable fraction of a second elapsed before the real import ofthe question reached him, like a bullet which strikes some time afterthe flash of the fired shot. Luckily his disengaged hand was readyto grip a bar of the gate. He held it with a terrible force, but hispresence of mind was gone. He could make only a sort of gurgling, grumpysound. "Come, Kirylo Sidorovitch!" she urged him. "I know you are not aboastful man. _That_ one must say for you. You are a silent man. Toosilent, perhaps. You are feeding on some bitterness of your own. You arenot an enthusiast. You are, perhaps, all the stronger for that. But youmight tell me. One would like to understand you a little more. I was soimmensely struck.... Have you really done it?" He got his voice back. The shot had missed him. It had been fired atrandom, altogether, more like a signal for coming to close quarters. It was to be a plain struggle for self-preservation. And she was adangerous adversary too. But he was ready for battle; he was so readythat when he turned towards her not a muscle of his face moved. "Certainly, " he said, without animation, secretly strung up butperfectly sure of himself. "Lectures--certainly, But what makes youask?" It was she who was animated. "I had it in a letter, written by a young man in Petersburg; one ofus, of course. You were seen--you were observed with your notebook, impassible, taking notes.... " He enveloped her with his fixed stare. "What of that?" "I call such coolness superb--that's all. It is a proof of uncommonstrength of character. The young man writes that nobody could haveguessed from your face and manner the part you had played only some twohours before--the great, momentous, glorious part.... " "Oh no. Nobody could have guessed, " assented Razumov gravely, "because, don't you see, nobody at that time.... " "Yes, yes. But all the same you are a man of exceptional fortitude, itseems. You looked exactly as usual. It was remembered afterwards withwonder.... " "It cost me no effort, " Razumov declared, with the same staring gravity. "Then it's almost more wonderful still!" she exclaimed, and fell silentwhile Razumov asked himself whether he had not said there somethingutterly unnecessary--or even worse. She raised her head eagerly. "Your intention was to stay in Russia? You had planned.... " "No, " interrupted Razumov without haste. "I had made no plans of anysort. " "You just simply walked away?" she struck in. He bowed his head in slow assent. "Simply--yes. " He had graduallyreleased his hold on the bar of the gate, as though he had acquired theconviction that no random shot could knock him over now. And suddenly hewas inspired to add, "The snow was coming down very thick, you know. " She had a slight appreciative movement of the head, like an expertin such enterprises, very interested, capable of taking every pointprofessionally. Razumov remembered something he had heard. "I turned into a narrow side street, you understand, " he went onnegligently, and paused as if it were not worth talking about. Then heremembered another detail and dropped it before her, like a disdainfuldole to her curiosity. "I felt inclined to lie down and go to sleep there. " She clicked her tongue at that symptom, very struck indeed. Then-- "But the notebook! The amazing notebook, man. You don't mean to say youhad put it in your pocket beforehand!" she cried. Razumov gave a start. It might have been a sign of impatience. "I went home. Straight home to my rooms, " he said distinctly. "The coolness of the man! You dared?" "Why not? I assure you I was perfectly calm. Ha! Calmer than I am nowperhaps. " "I like you much better as you are now than when you indulge that bittervein of yours, Razumov. And nobody in the house saw you return--eh? Thatmight have appeared queer. " "No one, " Razumov said firmly. "Dvornik, landlady, girl, all out of theway. I went up like a shadow. It was a murky morning. The stairs weredark. I glided up like a phantom. Fate? Luck? What do you think?" "I just see it!" The eyes of the woman revolutionist snapped darkly. "Well--and then you considered.... " Razumov had it all ready in his head. "No. I looked at my watch, since you want to know. There was just time. I took that notebook, and ran down the stairs on tiptoe. Have you everlistened to the pit-pat of a man running round and round the shaft ofa deep staircase? They have a gaslight at the bottom burning nightand day. I suppose it's gleaming down there now.... The sound diesout--the flame winks.... " He noticed the vacillation of surprise passing over the steady curiosityof the black eyes fastened on his face as if the woman revolutionistreceived the sound of his voice into her pupils instead of her ears. Hechecked himself, passed his hand over his forehead, confused, like a manwho has been dreaming aloud. "Where could a student be running if not to his lectures in the morning?At night it's another matter. I did not care if all the house had beenthere to look at me. But I don't suppose there was anyone. It's best notto be seen or heard. Aha! The people that are neither seen nor heard arethe lucky ones--in Russia. Don't you admire my luck?" "Astonishing, " she said. "If you have luck as well as determination, then indeed you are likely to turn out an invaluable acquisition for thework in hand. " Her tone was earnest; and it seemed to Razumov that it was speculative, even as though she were already apportioning him, in her mind, his shareof the work. Her eyes were cast down. He waited, not very alert now, butwith the grip of the ever-present danger giving him an air ofattentive gravity. Who could have written about him in that letterfrom Petersburg? A fellow student, surely--some imbecile victim ofrevolutionary propaganda, some foolish slave of foreign, subversiveideals. A long, famine-stricken, red-nosed figure presented itself tohis mental search. That must have been the fellow! He smiled inwardly at the absolute wrong-headedness of the whole thing, the self-deception of a criminal idealist shattering his existence likea thunder-clap out of a clear sky, and re-echoing amongst the wreckagein the false assumptions of those other fools. Fancy that hungry andpiteous imbecile furnishing to the curiosity of the revolutionistrefugees this utterly fantastic detail! He appreciated it as by no meansconstituting a danger. On the contrary. As things stood it was for hisadvantage rather, a piece of sinister luck which had only to be acceptedwith proper caution. "And yet, Razumov, " he heard the musing voice of the woman, "you havenot the face of a lucky man. " She raised her eyes with renewed interest. "And so that was the way of it. After doing your work you simply walkedoff and made for your rooms. That sort of thing succeeds sometimes. Isuppose it was agreed beforehand that, once the business over, each ofyou would go his own way?" Razumov preserved the seriousness of his expression and the deliberate, if cautious, manner of speaking. "Was not that the best thing to do?" he asked, in a dispassionate tone. "And anyway, " he added, after waiting a moment, "we did not give muchthought to what would come after. We never discussed formally any lineof conduct. It was understood, I think. " She approved his statement with slight nods. "You, of course, wished to remain in Russia?" "In St. Petersburg itself, " emphasized Razumov. "It was the only safecourse for me. And, moreover, I had nowhere else to go. " "Yes! Yes! I know. Clearly. And the other--this wonderful Haldinappearing only to be regretted--you don't know what he intended?" Razumov had foreseen that such a question would certainly come to meethim sooner or later. He raised his hands a little and let them fallhelplessly by his side--nothing more. It was the white-haired woman conspirator who was the first to break thesilence. "Very curious, " she pronounced slowly. "And you did not think, KiryloSidorovitch, that he might perhaps wish to get in touch with you again?" Razumov discovered that he could not suppress the trembling of his lips. But he thought that he owed it to himself to speak. A negative signwould not do again. Speak he must, if only to get at the bottom of whatthat St. Petersburg letter might have contained. "I stayed at home next day, " he said, bending down a little and plunginghis glance into the black eyes of the woman so that she should notobserve the trembling of his lips. "Yes, I stayed at home. As my actionsare remembered and written about, then perhaps you are aware that Iwas _not_ seen at the lectures next day. Eh? You didn't know? Well, Istopped at home-the live-long day. " As if moved by his agitated tone, she murmured a sympathetic "I see! Itmust have been trying enough. " "You seem to understand one's feelings, " said Razumov steadily. "It wastrying. It was horrible; it was an atrocious day. It was not the last. " "Yes, I understand. Afterwards, when you heard they had got him. Don'tI know how one feels after losing a comrade in the good fight? One'sashamed of being left. And I can remember so many. Never mind. Theyshall be avenged before long. And what is death? At any rate, it is nota shameful thing like some kinds of life. " Razumov felt something stir in his breast, a sort of feeble andunpleasant tremor. "Some kinds of life?" he repeated, looking at her searchingly. "The subservient, submissive life. Life? No! Vegetation on the filthyheap of iniquity which the world is. Life, Razumov, not to be vile mustbe a revolt--a pitiless protest--all the time. " She calmed down, the gleam of suffused tears in her eyes dried outinstantly by the heat of her passion, and it was in her capable, businesslike manner that she went on-- "You understand me, Razumov. You are not an enthusiast, but there is animmense force of revolt in you. I felt it from the first, directly Iset my eyes on you--you remember--in Zurich. Oh! You are full of bitterrevolt. That is good. Indignation flags sometimes, revenge itself maybecome a weariness, but that uncompromising sense of necessity andjustice which armed your and Haldin's hands to strike down thatfanatical brute... For it was that--nothing but that! I have beenthinking it out. It could have been nothing else but that. " Razumov made a slight bow, the irony of which was concealed by an almostsinister immobility of feature. "I can't speak for the dead. As for myself, I can assure you that myconduct was dictated by necessity and by the sense of--well--retributivejustice. " "Good, that, " he said to himself, while her eyes rested upon him, blackand impenetrable like the mental caverns where revolutionary thoughtshould sit plotting the violent way of its dream of changes. Asif anything could be changed! In this world of men nothing can bechanged--neither happiness nor misery. They can only be displaced atthe cost of corrupted consciences and broken lives--a futile game forarrogant philosophers and sanguinary triflers. Those thoughts dartedthrough Razumov's head while he stood facing the old revolutionary hand, the respected, trusted, and influential Sophia Antonovna, whose word hadsuch a weight in the "active" section of every party. She was much morerepresentative than the great Peter Ivanovitch. Stripped of rhetoric, mysticism, and theories, she was the true spirit of destructiverevolution. And she was the personal adversary he had to meet. It gavehim a feeling of triumphant pleasure to deceive her out of her ownmouth. The epigrammatic saying that speech has been given to us for thepurpose of concealing our thoughts came into his mind. Of that cynicaltheory this was a very subtle and a very scornful application, floutingin its own words the very spirit of ruthless revolution, embodied inthat woman with her white hair and black eyebrows, like slightly sinuouslines of Indian ink, drawn together by the perpendicular folds of athoughtful frown. "That's it. Retributive. No pity!" was the conclusion of her silence. And this once broken, she went on impulsively in short, vibratingsentences-- "Listen to my story, Razumov!... " Her father was a clever but unluckyartisan. No joy had lighted up his laborious days. He died at fifty;all the years of his life he had panted under the thumb of masters whoserapacity exacted from him the price of the water, of the salt, of thevery air he breathed; taxed the sweat of his brow and claimed the bloodof his sons. No protection, no guidance! What had society to say to him?Be submissive and be honest. If you rebel I shall kill you. If you stealI shall imprison you. But if you suffer I have nothing for you--nothingexcept perhaps a beggarly dole of bread--but no consolation for yourtrouble, no respect for your manhood, no pity for the sorrows of yourmiserable life. And so he laboured, he suffered, and he died. He died in the hospital. Standing by the common grave she thought of his tormented existence--shesaw it whole. She reckoned the simple joys of life, the birthright ofthe humblest, of which his gentle heart had been robbed by the crime ofa society which nothing can absolve. "Yes, Razumov, " she continued, in an impressive, lowered voice, "it waslike a lurid light in which I stood, still almost a child, and cursednot the toil, not the misery which had been his lot, but the greatsocial iniquity of the system resting on unrequited toil and unpitiedsufferings. From that moment I was a revolutionist. " Razumov, trying to raise himself above the dangerous weaknesses ofcontempt or compassion, had preserved an impassive countenance. She, with an unaffected touch of mere bitterness, the first he could noticesince he had come in contact with the woman, went on-- "As I could not go to the Church where the priests of the systemexhorted such unconsidered vermin as I to resignation, I went to thesecret societies as soon as I knew how to find my way. I was sixteenyears old--no more, Razumov! And--look at my white hair. " In these last words there was neither pride nor sadness. The bitternesstoo was gone. "There is a lot of it. I had always magnificent hair, even as a chit ofa girl. Only, at that time we were cutting it short and thinking thatthere was the first step towards crushing the social infamy. Crush theInfamy! A fine watchword! I would placard it on the walls of prisons andpalaces, carve it on hard rocks, hang it out in letters of fire on thatempty sky for a sign of hope and terror--a portent of the end.... " "You are eloquent, Sophia Antonovna, " Razumov interrupted suddenly. "Only, so far you seem to have been writing it in water.... " She was checked but not offended. "Who knows? Very soon it may becomea fact written all over that great land of ours, " she hinted meaningly. "And then one would have lived long enough. White hair won't matter. " Razumov looked at her white hair: and this mark of so many uneasy yearsseemed nothing but a testimony to the invincible vigour of revolt. Itthrew out into an astonishing relief the unwrinkled face, thebrilliant black glance, the upright compact figure, the simple, brisk self-possession of the mature personality--as though in herrevolutionary pilgrimage she had discovered the secret, not ofeverlasting youth, but of everlasting endurance. How un-Russian she looked, thought Razumov. Her mother might have beena Jewess or an Armenian or devil knew what. He reflected that arevolutionist is seldom true to the settled type. All revolt is theexpression of strong individualism--ran his thought vaguely. Onecan tell them a mile off in any society, in any surroundings. It wasastonishing that the police.... "We shall not meet again very soon, I think, " she was saying. "I amleaving to-morrow. " "For Zurich?" Razumov asked casually, but feeling relieved, not fromany distinct apprehension, but from a feeling of stress as if after awrestling match. "Yes, Zurich--and farther on, perhaps, much farther. Another journey. When I think of all my journeys! The last must come some day. Nevermind, Razumov. We had to have a good long talk. I would have certainlytried to see you if we had not met. Peter Ivanovitch knows where youlive? Yes. I meant to have asked him--but it's better like this. Yousee, we expect two more men; and I had much rather wait here talkingwith you than up there at the house with.... " Having cast a glance beyond the gate, she interrupted herself. "Herethey are, " she said rapidly. "Well, Kirylo Sidorovitch, we shall have tosay good-bye, presently. " IV In his incertitude of the ground on which he stood Razumov feltperturbed. Turning his head quickly, he saw two men on the opposite sideof the road. Seeing themselves noticed by Sophia Antonovna, they crossedover at once, and passed one after another through the little gateby the side of the empty lodge. They looked hard at the stranger, butwithout mistrust, the crimson blouse being a flaring safety signal. Thefirst, great white hairless face, double chin, prominent stomach, whichhe seemed to carry forward consciously within a strongly distendedovercoat, only nodded and averted his eyes peevishly; hiscompanion--lean, flushed cheekbones, a military red moustache below asharp, salient nose--approached at once Sophia Antonovna, greeting herwarmly. His voice was very strong but inarticulate. It sounded like adeep buzzing. The woman revolutionist was quietly cordial. "This is Razumov, " she announced in a clear voice. The lean new-comer made an eager half-turn. "He will want to embraceme, " thought our young man with a deep recoil of all his being, whilehis limbs seemed too heavy to move. But it was a groundless alarm. Hehad to do now with a generation of conspirators who did not kiss eachother on both cheeks; and raising an arm that felt like lead he droppedhis hand into a largely-outstretched palm, fleshless and hot as ifdried up by fever, giving a bony pressure, expressive, seeming to say, "Between us there's no need of words. " The man had big, wide-open eyes. Razumov fancied he could see a smile behind their sadness. "This is Razumov, " Sophia Antonovna repeated loudly for the benefit ofthe fat man, who at some distance displayed the profile of his stomach. No one moved. Everything, sounds, attitudes, movements, and immobilityseemed to be part of an experiment, the result of which was a thin voicepiping with comic peevishness-- "Oh yes! Razumov. We have been hearing of nothing but Mr. Razumov formonths. For my part, I confess I would rather have seen Haldin on thisspot instead of Mr. Razumov. " The squeaky stress put on the name "Razumov--Mr. Razumov" pierced theear ridiculously, like the falsetto of a circus clown beginning anelaborate joke. Astonishment was Razumov's first response, followed bysudden indignation. "What's the meaning of this?" he asked in a stern tone. "Tut! Silliness. He's always like that. " Sophia Antonovna was obviouslyvexed. But she dropped the information, "Necator, " from her lips justloud enough to be heard by Razumov. The abrupt squeaks of the fat manseemed to proceed from that thing like a balloon he carried under hisovercoat. The stolidity of his attitude, the big feet, the lifeless, hanging hands, the enormous bloodless cheek, the thin wisps of hairstraggling down the fat nape of the neck, fascinated Razumov into astare on the verge of horror and laughter. Nikita, surnamed Necator, with a sinister aptness of alliteration!Razumov had heard of him. He had heard so much since crossing thefrontier of these celebrities of the militant revolution; the legends, the stories, the authentic chronicle, which now and then peeps outbefore a half-incredulous world. Razumov had heard of him. He wassupposed to have killed more, gendarmes and police agents than anyrevolutionist living. He had been entrusted with executions. The paper with the letters N. N. , the very pseudonym of murder, found pinned on the stabbed breast of a certain notorious spy (thispicturesque detail of a sensational murder case had got intothe newspapers), was the mark of his handiwork. "By order of theCommittee. --N. N. " A corner of the curtain lifted to strike theimagination of the gaping world. He was said to have been innumerabletimes in and out of Russia, the Necator of bureaucrats, of provincialgovernors, of obscure informers. He lived between whiles, Razumov hadheard, on the shores of the Lake of Como, with a charming wife, devotedto the cause, and two young children. But how could that creature, sogrotesque as to set town dogs barking at its mere sight, go about onthose deadly errands and slip through the meshes of the police? "What now? what now?" the voice squeaked. "I am only sincere. It's notdenied that the other was the leading spirit. Well, it would have beenbetter if he had been the one spared to us. More useful. I am not asentimentalist. Say what I think... Only natural. " Squeak, squeak, squeak, without a gesture, without a stir--the horriblesqueaky burlesque of professional jealousy--this man of a sinisteralliterative nickname, this executioner of revolutionary verdicts, theterrifying N. N. Exasperated like a fashionable tenor by the attentionattracted to the performance of an obscure amateur. Sophia Antonovnashrugged her shoulders. The comrade with the martial red moustachehurried towards Razumov full of conciliatory intentions in his strongbuzzing voice. "Devil take it! And in this place, too, in the public street, so tospeak. But you can see yourself how it is. One of his fantastic sallies. Absolutely of no consequence. " "Pray don't concern yourself, " cried Razumov, going off into a long fitof laughter. "Don't mention it. " The other, his hectic flush like a pair of burns on his cheek-bones, stared for a moment and burst out laughing too. Razumov, whose hilaritydied out all at once, made a step forward. "Enough of this, " he began in a clear, incisive voice, though he couldhardly control the trembling of his legs. "I will have no more of it. Ishall not permit anyone.... I can see very well what you are at withthose allusions.... Inquire, investigate! I defy you, but I will notbe played with. " He had spoken such words before. He had been driven to cry them out inthe face of other suspicions. It was an infernal cycle bringing roundthat protest like a fatal necessity of his existence. But it was no use. He would be always played with. Luckily life does not last for ever. "I won't have it!" he shouted, striking his fist into the palm of hisother hand. "Kirylo Sidorovitch--what has come to you?" The woman revolutionistinterfered with authority. They were all looking at Razumov now; theslayer of spies and gendarmes had turned about, presenting his enormousstomach in full, like a shield. "Don't shout. There are people passing. " Sophia Antonovna wasapprehensive of another outburst. A steam-launch from Monrepos hadcome to the landing-stage opposite the gate, its hoarse whistle andthe churning noise alongside all unnoticed, had landed a small bunch oflocal passengers who were dispersing their several ways. Only a specimenof early tourist in knickerbockers, conspicuous by a brand-new yellowleather glass-case, hung about for a moment, scenting something unusualabout these four people within the rusty iron gates of what looked thegrounds run wild of an unoccupied private house. Ah! If he had onlyknown what the chance of commonplace travelling had suddenly put in hisway! But he was a well-bred person; he averted his gaze and moved offwith short steps along the avenue, on the watch for a tramcar. A gesture from Sophia Antonovna, "Leave him to me, " had sent the two menaway--the buzzing of the inarticulate voice growing fainter and fainter, and the thin pipe of "What now? what's the matter?" reduced to theproportions of a squeaking toy by the distance. They had left him toher. So many things could be left safely to the experience of SophiaAntonovna. And at once, her black eyes turned to Razumov, her mind triedto get at the heart of that outburst. It had some meaning. No one isborn an active revolutionist. The change comes disturbingly, with theforce of a sudden vocation, bringing in its train agonizing doubts, assertive violences, an unstable state of the soul, till the finalappeasement of the convert in the perfect fierceness of conviction. Shehad seen--often had only divined--scores of these young men and youngwomen going through an emotional crisis. This young man looked like amoody egotist. And besides, it was a special--a unique case. She hadnever met an individuality which interested and puzzled her so much. "Take care, Razumov, my good friend. If you carry on like this you willgo mad. You are angry with everybody and bitter with yourself, and onthe look out for something to torment yourself with. " "It's intolerable!" Razumov could only speak in gasps. "You must admitthat I can have no illusions on the attitude which... It isn't clear... Orrather only too clear. " He made a gesture of despair. It was not his courage that failed him. The choking fumes of falsehood had taken him by the throat--the thoughtof being condemned to struggle on and on in that tainted atmospherewithout the hope of ever renewing his strength by a breath of fresh air. "A glass of cold water is what you want. " Sophia Antonovna glanced upthe grounds at the house and shook her head, then out of the gate atthe brimful placidity of the lake. With a half-comical shrug of theshoulders, she gave the remedy up in the face of that abundance. "It is you, my dear soul, who are flinging yourself at something whichdoes not exist. What is it? Self-reproach, or what? It's absurd. Youcouldn't have gone and given yourself up because your comrade wastaken. " She remonstrated with him reasonably, at some length too. He had nothingto complain of in his reception. Every new-comer was discussed more orless. Everybody had to be thoroughly understood before being accepted. No one that she could remember had been shown from the first so muchconfidence. Soon, very soon, perhaps sooner than he expected, he wouldbe given an opportunity of showing his devotion to the sacred task ofcrushing the Infamy. Razumov, listening quietly, thought: "It may be that she is trying tolull my suspicions to sleep. On the other hand, it is obvious that mostof them are fools. " He moved aside a couple of paces and, folding hisarms on his breast, leaned back against the stone pillar of the gate. "As to what remains obscure in the fate of that poor Haldin, " SophiaAntonovna dropped into a slowness of utterance which was to Razumov likethe falling of molten lead drop by drop; "as to that--though no one everhinted that either from fear or neglect your conduct has not been whatit should have been--well, I have a bit of intelligence.... " Razumov could not prevent himself from raising his head, and SophiaAntonovna nodded slightly. "I have. You remember that letter from St. Petersburg I mentioned to youa moment ago?" "The letter? Perfectly. Some busybody has been reporting my conduct ona certain day. It's rather sickening. I suppose our police are greatlyedified when they open these interesting and--and--superfluous letters. " "Oh dear no! The police do not get hold of our letters as easily as youimagine. The letter in question did not leave St. Petersburg till theice broke up. It went by the first English steamer which left the Nevathis spring. They have a fireman on board--one of us, in fact. It hasreached me from Hull.... " She paused as if she were surprised at the sullen fixity of Razumov'sgaze, but went on at once, and much faster. "We have some of our people there who... But never mind. The writerof the letter relates an incident which he thinks may possibly beconnected with Haldin's arrest. I was just going to tell you when thosetwo men came along. " "That also was an incident, " muttered Razumov, "of a very charmingkind--for me. " "Leave off that!" cried Sophia Antonovna. "Nobody cares for Nikita'sbarking. There's no malice in him. Listen to what I have to say. Youmay be able to throw a light. There was in St. Petersburg a sort of townpeasant--a man who owned horses. He came to town years ago to work forsome relation as a driver and ended by owning a cab or two. " She might well have spared herself the slight effort of the gesture:"Wait!" Razumov did not mean to speak; he could not have interruptedher now, not to save his life. The contraction of his facial muscles hadbeen involuntary, a mere surface stir, leaving him sullenly attentive asbefore. "He was not a quite ordinary man of his class--it seems, " she went on. "The people of the house--my informant talked with many of them--youknow, one of those enormous houses of shame and misery.... " Sophia Antonovna need not have enlarged on the character of the house. Razumov saw clearly, towering at her back, a dark mass of masonry veiledin snowflakes, with the long row of windows of the eating-shop shininggreasily very near the ground. The ghost of that night pursued him. Hestood up to it with rage and with weariness. "Did the late Haldin ever by chance speak to you of that house?" SophiaAntonovna was anxious to know. "Yes. " Razumov, making that answer, wondered whether he were fallinginto a trap. It was so humiliating to lie to these people that heprobably could not have said no. "He mentioned to me once, " he added, asif making an effort of memory, "a house of that sort. He used to visitsome workmen there. " "Exactly. " Sophia Antonovna triumphed. Her correspondent had discovered that factquite accidentally from the talk of the people of the house, havingmade friends with a workman who occupied a room there. They describedHaldin's appearance perfectly. He brought comforting words of hope intotheir misery. He came irregularly, but he came very often, and--hercorrespondent wrote--sometimes he spent a night in the house, sleeping, they thought, in a stable which opened upon the inner yard. "Note that, Razumov! In a stable. " Razumov had listened with a sort of ferocious but amused acquiescence. "Yes. In the straw. It was probably the cleanest spot in the wholehouse. " "No doubt, " assented the woman with that deep frown which seemed to drawcloser together her black eyes in a sinister fashion. No four-footedbeast could stand the filth and wretchedness so many human beings werecondemned to suffer from in Russia. The point of this discovery was thatit proved Haldin to have been familiar with that horse-owning peasant--areckless, independent, free-living fellow not much liked by the otherinhabitants of the house. He was believed to have been the associate ofa band of housebreakers. Some of these got captured. Not while he wasdriving them, however; but still there was a suspicion against thefellow of having given a hint to the police and... The woman revolutionist checked herself suddenly. "And you? Have you ever heard your friend refer to a certainZiemianitch?" Razumov was ready for the name. He had been looking out for thequestion. "When it comes I shall own up, " he had said to himself. But hetook his time. "To be sure!" he began slowly. "Ziemianitch, a peasant owning a team ofhorses. Yes. On one occasion. Ziemianitch! Certainly! Ziemianitch of thehorses.... How could it have slipped my memory like this? One of thelast conversations we had together. " "That means, "--Sophia Antonovna looked very grave, --"that means, Razumov, it was very shortly before--eh?" "Before what?" shouted Razumov, advancing at the woman, who lookedastonished but stood her ground. "Before.... Oh! Of course, it wasbefore! How could it have been after? Only a few hours before. " "And he spoke of him favourably?" "With enthusiasm! The horses of Ziemianitch! The free soul ofZiemianitch!" Razumov took a savage delight in the loud utterance of that name, whichhad never before crossed his lips audibly. He fixed his blazing eyeson the woman till at last her fascinated expression recalled him tohimself. "The late Haldin, " he said, holding himself in, with downcast eyes, "was inclined to take sudden fancies to people, on--on--what shall Isay--insufficient grounds. " "There!" Sophia Antonovna clapped her hands. "That, to my mind, settlesit. The suspicions of my correspondent were aroused.... " "Aha! Your correspondent, " Razumov said in an almost openly mockingtone. "What suspicions? How aroused? By this Ziemianitch? Probably somedrunken, gabbling, plausible... " "You talk as if you had known him. " Razumov looked up. "No. But I knew Haldin. " Sophia Antonovna nodded gravely. "I see. Every word you say confirms to my mind the suspicioncommunicated to me in that very interesting letter. This Ziemianitch wasfound one morning hanging from a hook in the stable--dead. " Razumov felt a profound trouble. It was visible, because SophiaAntonovna was moved to observe vivaciously-- "Aha! You begin to see. " He saw it clearly enough--in the light of a lantern casting spokes ofshadow in a cellar-like stable, the body in a sheepskin coat and longboots hanging against the wall. A pointed hood, with the ends woundabout up to the eyes, hid the face. "But that does not concern me, " hereflected. "It does not affect my position at all. He never knew who hadthrashed him. He could not have known. " Razumov felt sorry for the oldlover of the bottle and women. "Yes. Some of them end like that, " he muttered. "What is your idea, Sophia Antonovna?" It was really the idea of her correspondent, but Sophia Antonovna hadadopted it fully. She stated it in one word--"Remorse. " Razumov openedhis eyes very wide at that. Sophia Antonovna's informant, by listeningto the talk of the house, by putting this and that together, had managedto come very near to the truth of Haldin's relation to Ziemianitch. "It is I who can tell you what you were not certain of--that your friendhad some plan for saving himself afterwards, for getting out of St. Petersburg, at any rate. Perhaps that and no more, trusting to luck forthe rest. And that fellow's horses were part of the plan. " "They have actually got at the truth, " Razumov marvelled to himself, while he nodded judicially. "Yes, that's possible, very possible. " Butthe woman revolutionist was very positive that it was so. First of all, a conversation about horses between Haldin and Ziemianitch had beenpartly overheard. Then there were the suspicions of the people in thehouse when their "young gentleman" (they did not know Haldin byhis name) ceased to call at the house. Some of them used to chargeZiemianitch with knowing something of this absence. He denied it withexasperation; but the fact was that ever since Haldin's disappearance hewas not himself, growing moody and thin. Finally, during a quarrel withsome woman (to whom he was making up), in which most of the inmates ofthe house took part apparently, he was openly abused by his chief enemy, an athletic pedlar, for an informer, and for having driven "our younggentleman to Siberia, the same as you did those young fellows who brokeinto houses. " In consequence of this there was a fight, and Ziemianitchgot flung down a flight of stairs. Thereupon he drank and moped for aweek, and then hanged himself. Sophia Antonovna drew her conclusions from the tale. She chargedZiemianitch either with drunken indiscretion as to a driving job on acertain date, overheard by some spy in some low grog-shop--perhaps inthe very eating-shop on the ground floor of the house--or, maybe, adownright denunciation, followed by remorse. A man like that would becapable of anything. People said he was a flighty old chap. And if hehad been once before mixed up with the police--as seemed certain, thoughhe always denied it--in connexion with these thieves, he would be sureto be acquainted with some police underlings, always on the look out forsomething to report. Possibly at first his tale was not made anything oftill the day that scoundrel de P--- got his deserts. Ah! But then everybit and scrap of hint and information would be acted on, and fatallythey were bound to get Haldin. Sophia Antonovna spread out her hands--"Fatally. " Fatality--chance! Razumov meditated in silent astonishment upon thequeer verisimilitude of these inferences. They were obviously to hisadvantage. "It is right now to make this conclusive evidence known generally. "Sophia Antonovna was very calm and deliberate again. She had receivedthe letter three days ago, but did not write at once to PeterIvanovitch. She knew then that she would have the opportunity presentlyof meeting several men of action assembled for an important purpose. "I thought it would be more effective if I could show the letter itselfat large. I have it in my pocket now. You understand how pleased I wasto come upon you. " Razumov was saying to himself, "She won't offer to show the letter tome. Not likely. Has she told me everything that correspondent of hershas found out?" He longed to see the letter, but he felt he must notask. "Tell me, please, was this an investigation ordered, as it were?" "No, no, " she protested. "There you are again with your sensitiveness. It makes you stupid. Don't you see, there was no starting-point for aninvestigation even if any one had thought of it. A perfect blank! That'sexactly what some people were pointing out as the reason for receivingyou cautiously. It was all perfectly accidental, arising from myinformant striking an acquaintance with an intelligent skindresserlodging in that particular slum-house. A wonderful coincidence!" "A pious person, " suggested Razumov, with a pale smile, "would say thatthe hand of God has done it all. " "My poor father would have said that. " Sophia Antonovna did not smile. She dropped her eyes. "Not that his God ever helped him. It's a longtime since God has done anything for the people. Anyway, it's done. " "All this would be quite final, " said Razumov, with every appearance ofreflective impartiality, "if there was any certitude that the 'our younggentleman' of these people was Victor Haldin. Have we got that?" "Yes. There's no mistake. My correspondent was as familiar with Haldin'spersonal appearance as with your own, " the woman affirmed decisively. "It's the red-nosed fellow beyond a doubt, " Razumov said to himself, with reawakened uneasiness. Had his own visit to that accursed housepassed unnoticed? It was barely possible. Yet it was hardly probable. It was just the right sort of food for the popular gossip that gauntbusybody had been picking up. But the letter did not seem to contain anyallusion to that. Unless she had suppressed it. And, if so, why? If ithad really escaped the prying of that hunger-stricken democrat with aconfounded genius for recognizing people from description, it couldonly be for a time. He would come upon it presently and hasten to writeanother letter--and then! For all the envenomed recklessness of his temper, fed on hate anddisdain, Razumov shuddered inwardly. It guarded him from common fear, but it could not defend him from disgust at being dealt with in any wayby these people. It was a sort of superstitious dread. Now, since hisposition had been made more secure by their own folly at the cost ofZiemianitch, he felt the need of perfect safety, with its freedomfrom direct lying, with its power of moving amongst them silent, unquestioning, listening, impenetrable, like the very fate of theircrimes and their folly. Was this advantage his already? Or not yet? Ornever would be? "Well, Sophia Antonovna, " his air of reluctant concession was genuinein so far that he was really loath to part with her without testing hersincerity by a question it was impossible to bring about in any way;"well, Sophia Antonovna, if that is so, then--" "The creature has done justice to himself, " the woman observed, as ifthinking aloud. "What? Ah yes! Remorse, " Razumov muttered, with equivocal contempt. "Don't be harsh, Kirylo Sidorovitch, if you have lost a friend. " Therewas no hint of softness in her tone, only the black glitter of her eyesseemed detached for an instant from vengeful visions. "He was a man ofthe people. The simple Russian soul is never wholly impenitent. It'ssomething to know that. " "Consoling?" insinuated Razumov, in a tone of inquiry. "Leave off railing, " she checked him explosively. "Remember, Razumov, that women, children, and revolutionists hate irony, which is thenegation of all saving instincts, of all faith, of all devotion, of allaction. Don't rail! Leave off.... I don't know how it is, but thereare moments when you are abhorrent to me.... " She averted her face. A languid silence, as if all the electricity ofthe situation had been discharged in this flash of passion, lasted forsome time. Razumov had not flinched. Suddenly she laid the tips of herfingers on his sleeve. "Don't mind. " "I don't mind, " he said very quietly. He was proud to feel that she could read nothing on his face. He wasreally mollified, relieved, if only for a moment, from an obscureoppression. And suddenly he asked himself, "Why the devil did I go tothat house? It was an imbecile thing to do. " A profound disgust came over him. Sophia Antonovna lingered, talkingin a friendly manner with an evident conciliatory intention. And it wasstill about the famous letter, referring to various minute detailsgiven by her informant, who had never seen Ziemianitch. The "victim ofremorse" had been buried several weeks before her correspondent beganfrequenting the house. It--the house--contained very good revolutionarymaterial. The spirit of the heroic Haldin had passed through these densof black wretchedness with a promise of universal redemption from allthe miseries that oppress mankind. Razumov listened without hearing, gnawed by the newborn desire of safety with its independence from thatdegrading method of direct lying which at times he found it almostimpossible to practice. No. The point he wanted to hear about could never come into thisconversation. There was no way of bringing it forward. He regrettednot having composed a perfect story for use abroad, in which his fatalconnexion with the house might have been owned up to. But when he leftRussia he did not know that Ziemianitch had hanged himself. And, anyway, who could have foreseen this woman's "informant" stumbling upon thatparticular slum, of all the slums awaiting destruction in the purifyingflame of social revolution? Who could have foreseen? Nobody! "It's aperfect, diabolic surprise, " thought Razumov, calm-faced in his attitudeof inscrutable superiority, nodding assent to Sophia Antonovna's remarksupon the psychology of "the people, " "Oh yes--certainly, " rathercoldly, but with a nervous longing in his fingers to tear some sort ofconfession out of her throat. Then, at the very last, on the point of separating, the feeling ofrelaxed tension already upon him, he heard Sophia Antonovna allude tothe subject of his uneasiness. How it came about he could only guess, his mind being absent at the moment, but it must have sprung from SophiaAntonovna's complaints of the illogical absurdity of the people. Forinstance--that Ziemianitch was notoriously irreligious, and yet, in thelast weeks of his life, he suffered from the notion that he had beenbeaten by the devil. "The devil, " repeated Razumov, as though he had not heard aright. "The actual devil. The devil in person. You may well look astonished, Kirylo Sidorovitch. Early on the very night poor Haldin was taken, a complete stranger turned up and gave Ziemianitch a most fearfulthrashing while he was lying dead-drunk in the stable. The wretchedcreature's body was one mass of bruises. He showed them to the people inthe house. " "But you, Sophia Antonovna, you don't believe in the actual devil?" "Do you?" retorted the woman curtly. "Not but that there are plenty ofmen worse than devils to make a hell of this earth, " she muttered toherself. Razumov watched her, vigorous and white-haired, with the deep foldbetween her thin eyebrows, and her black glance turned idly away. It wasobvious that she did not make much of the story--unless, indeed, thiswas the perfection of duplicity. "A dark young man, " she explainedfurther. "Never seen there before, never seen afterwards. Why are yousmiling, Razumov?" "At the devil being still young after all these ages, " he answeredcomposedly. "But who was able to describe him, since the victim, yousay, was dead-drunk at the time?" "Oh! The eating-house keeper has described him. An overbearing, swarthy young man in a student's cloak, who came rushing in, demandedZiemianitch, beat him furiously, and rushed away without a word, leavingthe eating-house keeper paralysed with astonishment. " "Does he, too, believe it was the devil?" "That I can't say. I am told he's very reserved on the matter. Thosesellers of spirits are great scoundrels generally. I should think heknows more of it than anybody. " "Well, and you, Sophia Antonovna, what's your theory?" asked Razumovin a tone of great interest. "Yours and your informant's, who is on thespot. " "I agree with him. Some police-hound in disguise. Who else could beat ahelpless man so unmercifully? As for the rest, if they were out that dayon every trail, old and new, it is probable enough that they mighthave thought it just as well to have Ziemianitch at hand for moreinformation, or for identification, or what not. Some scoundrellydetective was sent to fetch him along, and being vexed at finding himso drunk broke a stable fork over his ribs. Later on, after they had thebig game safe in the net, they troubled their heads no more about thatpeasant. " Such were the last words of the woman revolutionist in thisconversation, keeping so close to the truth, departing from it so far inthe verisimilitude of thoughts and conclusions as to give one the notionof the invincible nature of human error, a glimpse into the utmostdepths of self-deception. Razumov, after shaking hands with SophiaAntonovna, left the grounds, crossed the road, and walking out on thelittle steamboat pier leaned over the rail. His mind was at ease; ease such as he had not known for many days, ever since that night... The night. The conversation with the womanrevolutionist had given him the view of his danger at the very momentthis danger vanished, characteristically enough. "I ought to haveforeseen the doubts that would arise in those people's minds, " hethought. Then his attention being attracted by a stone of peculiarshape, which he could see clearly lying at the bottom, he began tospeculate as to the depth of water in that spot. But very soon, with astart of wonder at this extraordinary instance of ill-timed detachment, he returned to his train of thought. "I ought to have told verycircumstantial lies from the first, " he said to himself, with a mortaldistaste of the mere idea which silenced his mental utterance for quitea perceptible interval. "Luckily, that's all right now, " he reflected, and after a time spoke to himself, half aloud, "Thanks to the devil, "and laughed a little. The end of Ziemianitch then arrested his wandering thoughts. He was notexactly amused at the interpretation, but he could not help detectingin it a certain piquancy. He owned to himself that, had he known of thatsuicide before leaving Russia, he would have been incapable of makingsuch excellent use of it for his own purposes. He ought to be infinitelyobliged to the fellow with the red nose for his patience and ingenuity, "A wonderful psychologist apparently, " he said to himself sarcastically. Remorse, indeed! It was a striking example of your true conspirator'sblindness, of the stupid subtlety of people with one idea. This wasa drama of love, not of conscience, Razumov continued to himselfmockingly. A woman the old fellow was making up to! A robust pedlar, clearly a rival, throwing him down a flight of stairs.... And atsixty, for a lifelong lover, it was not an easy matter to get over. That was a feminist of a different stamp from Peter Ivanovitch. Even thecomfort of the bottle might conceivably fail him in this supremecrisis. At such an age nothing but a halter could cure the pangs ofan unquenchable passion. And, besides, there was the wild exasperationaroused by the unjust aspersions and the contumely of the house, withthe maddening impossibility to account for that mysterious thrashing, added to these simple and bitter sorrows. "Devil, eh?" Razumovexclaimed, with mental excitement, as if he had made an interestingdiscovery. "Ziemianitch ended by falling into mysticism. So many of ourtrue Russian souls end in that way! Very characteristic. " He felt pityfor Ziemianitch, a large neutral pity, such as one may feel for anunconscious multitude, a great people seen from above--like a communityof crawling ants working out its destiny. It was as if this Ziemianitchcould not possibly have done anything else. And Sophia Antonovna'scocksure and contemptuous "some police-hound" was characteristicallyRussian in another way. But there was no tragedy there. This was acomedy of errors. It was as if the devil himself were playing a gamewith all of them in turn. First with him, then with Ziemianitch, then with those revolutionists. The devil's own game this.... Heinterrupted his earnest mental soliloquy with a jocular thought at hisown expense. "Hallo! I am falling into mysticism too. " His mind was more at ease than ever. Turning about he put his backagainst the rail comfortably. "All this fits with marvellous aptness, "he continued to think. "The brilliance of my reputed exploit is nolonger darkened by the fate of my supposed colleague. The mysticZiemianitch accounts for that. An incredible chance has served me. Nomore need of lies. I shall have only to listen and to keep my scorn fromgetting the upper hand of my caution. " He sighed, folded his arms, his chin dropped on his breast, and it wasa long time before he started forward from that pose, with therecollection that he had made up his mind to do something important thatday. What it was he could not immediately recall, yet he made no effortof memory, for he was uneasily certain that he would remember presently. He had not gone more than a hundred yards towards the town when heslowed down, almost faltered in his walk, at the sight of a figurewalking in the contrary direction, draped in a cloak, under a soft, broad-brimmed hat, picturesque but diminutive, as if seen through thebig end of an opera-glass. It was impossible to avoid that tiny man, forthere was no issue for retreat. "Another one going to that mysterious meeting, " thought Razumov. He wasright in his surmise, only _this_ one, unlike the others who came from adistance, was known to him personally. Still, he hoped to pass on witha mere bow, but it was impossible to ignore the little thin hand withhairy wrist and knuckles protruded in a friendly wave from under thefolds of the cloak, worn Spanish-wise, in disregard of a fairly warmday, a corner flung over the shoulder. "And how is Herr Razumov?" sounded the greeting in German, by that alonemade more odious to the object of the affable recognition. At closerquarters the diminutive personage looked like a reduction of anordinary-sized man, with a lofty brow bared for a moment by the raisingof the hat, the great pepper-and salt full beard spread over theproportionally broad chest. A fine bold nose jutted over a thin mouthhidden in the mass of fine hair. All this, accented features, stronglimbs in their relative smallness, appeared delicate without theslightest sign of debility. The eyes alone, almond-shaped and brown, were too big, with the whites slightly bloodshot by much pen labourunder a lamp. The obscure celebrity of the tiny man was well known toRazumov. Polyglot, of unknown parentage, of indefinite nationality, anarchist, with a pedantic and ferocious temperament, and an amazinglyinflammatory capacity for invective, he was a power in the background, this violent pamphleteer clamouring for revolutionary justice, thisJulius Laspara, editor of the _Living Word_, confidant of conspirators, inditer of sanguinary menaces and manifestos, suspected of being in thesecret of every plot. Laspara lived in the old town in a sombre, narrow house presented to him by a naive middle-class admirer of hishumanitarian eloquence. With him lived his two daughters, who overtoppedhim head and shoulders, and a pasty-faced, lean boy of six, languishingin the dark rooms in blue cotton overalls and clumsy boots, who mighthave belonged to either one of them or to neither. No stranger couldtell. Julius Laspara no doubt knew which of his girls it was who, aftercasually vanishing for a few years, had as casually returned to himpossessed of that child; but, with admirable pedantry, he had refrainedfrom asking her for details--no, not so much as the name of the father, because maternity should be an anarchist function. Razumov had beenadmitted twice to that suite of several small dark rooms on the topfloor: dusty window-panes, litter of all sorts of sweepings all overthe place, half-full glasses of tea forgotten on every table, the twoLaspara daughters prowling about enigmatically silent, sleepy-eyed, corsetless, and generally, in their want of shape and the disorderof their rumpled attire, resembling old dolls; the great but obscureJulius, his feet twisted round his three-legged stool, always ready toreceive the visitors, the pen instantly dropped, the body screwed roundwith a striking display of the lofty brow and of the great austerebeard. When he got down from his stool it was as though he had descendedfrom the heights of Olympus. He was dwarfed by his daughters, by thefurniture, by any caller of ordinary stature. But he very seldom leftit, and still more rarely was seen walking in broad daylight. It must have been some matter of serious importance which had driven himout in that direction that afternoon. Evidently he wished to be amiableto that young man whose arrival had made some sensation in the worldof political refugees. In Russian now, which he spoke, as he spoke andwrote four or five other European languages, without distinction andwithout force (other than that of invective), he inquired if Razumovhad taken his inscriptions at the University as yet. And the young man, shaking his head negatively-- "There's plenty of time for that. But, meantime, are you not going towrite something for us?" He could not understand how any one could refrain from writing onanything, social, economic, historical--anything. Any subject could betreated in the right spirit, and for the ends of social revolution. And, as it happened, a friend of his in London had got in touch with a reviewof advanced ideas. "We must educate, educate everybody--develop thegreat thought of absolute liberty and of revolutionary justice. " Razumov muttered rather surlily that he did not even know English. "Write in Russian. We'll have it translated There can be no difficulty. Why, without seeking further, there is Miss Haldin. My daughters go tosee her sometimes. " He nodded significantly. "She does nothing, hasnever done anything in her life. She would be quite competent, with alittle assistance. Only write. You know you must. And so good-bye forthe present. " He raised his arm and went on. Razumov backed against the low wall, looked after him, spat violently, and went on his way with an angrymutter-- "Cursed Jew!" He did not know anything about it. Julius Laspara might have been aTransylvanian, a Turk, an Andalusian, or a citizen of one of the Hansetowns for anything he could tell to the contrary. But this is not astory of the West, and this exclamation must be recorded, accompanied bythe comment that it was merely an expression of hate and contempt, bestadapted to the nature of the feelings Razumov suffered from at the time. He was boiling with rage, as though he had been grossly insulted. Hewalked as if blind, following instinctively the shore of the diminutiveharbour along the quay, through a pretty, dull garden, where dullpeople sat on chairs under the trees, till, his fury abandoning him, hediscovered himself in the middle of a long, broad bridge. He slowed downat once. To his right, beyond the toy-like jetties, he saw the greenslopes framing the Petit Lac in all the marvellous banality of thepicturesque made of painted cardboard, with the more distant stretch ofwater inanimate and shining like a piece of tin. He turned his head away from that view for the tourists, and walked onslowly, his eyes fixed on the ground. One or two persons had to getout of his way, and then turned round to give a surprised stare tohis profound absorption. The insistence of the celebrated subversivejournalist rankled in his mind strangely. Write. Must write! He! Write!A sudden light flashed upon him. To write was the very thing he had madeup his mind to do that day. He had made up his mind irrevocably to thatstep and then had forgotten all about it. That incorrigible tendency toescape from the grip of the situation was fraught with serious danger. He was ready to despise himself for it. What was it? Levity, ordeep-seated weakness? Or an unconscious dread? "Is it that I am shrinking? It can't be! It's impossible. To shrink nowwould be worse than moral suicide; it would be nothing less than moraldamnation, " he thought. "Is it possible that I have a conventionalconscience?" He rejected that hypothesis with scorn, and, checked on the edge of thepavement, made ready to cross the road and proceed up the wide streetfacing the head of the bridge; and that for no other reason except thatit was there before him. But at the moment a couple of carriages and aslow-moving cart interposed, and suddenly he turned sharp to the left, following the quay again, but now away from the lake. "It may be just my health, " he thought, allowing himself a very unusualdoubt of his soundness; for, with the exception of a childish ailmentor two, he had never been ill in his life. But that was a danger, too. Only, it seemed as though he were being looked after in a speciallyremarkable way. "If I believed in an active Providence, " Razumov saidto himself, amused grimly, "I would see here the working of an ironicalfinger. To have a Julius Laspara put in my way as if expressly to remindme of my purpose is--Write, he had said. I must write--I must, indeed!I shall write--never fear. Certainly. That's why I am here. And for thefuture I shall have something to write about. " He was exciting himself by this mental soliloquy. But the idea ofwriting evoked the thought of a place to write in, of shelter, ofprivacy, and naturally of his lodgings, mingled with a distaste for thenecessary exertion of getting there, with a mistrust as of some hostileinfluence awaiting him within those odious four walls. "Suppose one of these revolutionists, " he asked himself, "were to takea fancy to call on me while I am writing?" The mere prospect of suchan interruption made him shudder. One could lock one's door, or askthe tobacconist downstairs (some sort of a refugee himself) to tellinquirers that one was not in. Not very good precautions those. Themanner of his life, he felt, must be kept clear of every cause forsuspicion or even occasion for wonder, down to such trifling occurrencesas a delay in opening a locked door. "I wish I were in the middle ofsome field miles away from everywhere, " he thought. He had unconsciously turned to the left once more and now was aware ofbeing on a bridge again. This one was much narrower than the other, andinstead of being straight, made a sort of elbow or angle. At the pointof that angle a short arm joined it to a hexagonal islet with a soil ofgravel and its shores faced with dressed stone, a perfection of puerileneatness. A couple of tall poplars and a few other trees stood groupedon the clean, dark gravel, and under them a few garden benches and abronze effigy of Jean Jacques Rousseau seated on its pedestal. On setting his foot on it Razumov became aware that, except for thewoman in charge of the refreshment chalet, he would be alone on theisland. There was something of naive, odious, and inane simplicity aboutthat unfrequented tiny crumb of earth named after Jean Jacques Rousseau. Something pretentious and shabby, too. He asked for a glass of milk, which he drank standing, at one draught (nothing but tea had passed hislips since the morning), and was going away with a weary, lagging stepwhen a thought stopped him short. He had found precisely what he needed. If solitude could ever be secured in the open air in the middle of atown, he would have it there on this absurd island, together with thefaculty of watching the only approach. He went back heavily to a garden seat, dropped into it. This was theplace for making a beginning of that writing which had to be done. Thematerials he had on him. "I shall always come here, " he said to himself, and afterwards sat for quite a long time motionless, without thoughtand sight and hearing, almost without life. He sat long enough for thedeclining sun to dip behind the roofs of the town at his back, and throwthe shadow of the houses on the lake front over the islet, before hepulled out of his pocket a fountain pen, opened a small notebook on hisknee, and began to write quickly, raising his eyes now and then at theconnecting arm of the bridge. These glances were needless; the peoplecrossing over in the distance seemed unwilling even to look at theislet where the exiled effigy of the author of the _Social Contract_ satenthroned above the bowed head of Razumov in the sombre immobility ofbronze. After finishing his scribbling, Razumov, with a sort of feverishhaste, put away the pen, then rammed the notebook into his pocket, firsttearing out the written pages with an almost convulsive brusqueness. Butthe folding of the flimsy batch on his knee was executed with thoughtfulnicety. That done, he leaned back in his seat and remained motionless, the papers holding in his left hand. The twilight had deepened. He gotup and began to pace to and fro slowly under the trees. "There can be no doubt that now I am safe, " he thought. His fine earcould detect the faintly accentuated murmurs of the current breakingagainst the point of the island, and he forgot himself in listening tothem with interest. But even to his acute sense of hearing the sound wastoo elusive. "Extraordinary occupation I am giving myself up to, " he murmured. Andit occurred to him that this was about the only sound he could listento innocently, and for his own pleasure, as it were. Yes, the sound ofwater, the voice of the wind--completely foreign to human passions. Allthe other sounds of this earth brought contamination to the solitude ofa soul. This was Mr. Razumov's feeling, the soul, of course, being his own, andthe word being used not in the theological sense, but standing, as faras I can understand it, for that part of Mr. Razumov which was not hisbody, and more specially in danger from the fires of this earth. And itmust be admitted that in Mr. Razumov's case the bitterness of solitudefrom which he suffered was not an altogether morbid phenomenon. PART FOUR I That I should, at the beginning of this retrospect, mention again thatMr. Razumov's youth had no one in the world, as literally no one as itcan be honestly affirmed of any human being, is but a statement of factfrom a man who believes in the psychological value of facts. Thereis also, perhaps, a desire of punctilious fairness. Unidentified withanyone in this narrative where the aspects of honour and shame areremote from the ideas of the Western world, and taking my stand on theground of common humanity, it is for that very reason that I feel astrange reluctance to state baldly here what every reader has mostlikely already discovered himself. Such reluctance may appear absurd ifit were not for the thought that because of the imperfection of languagethere is always something ungracious (and even disgraceful) in theexhibition of naked truth. But the time has come when Councillor ofState Mikulin can no longer be ignored. His simple question "Where to?"on which we left Mr. Razumov in St. Petersburg, throws a light on thegeneral meaning of this individual case. "Where to?" was the answer in the form of a gentle question to what wemay call Mr. Razumov's declaration of independence. The question was notmenacing in the least and, indeed, had the ring of innocent inquiry. Had it been taken in a merely topographical sense, the only answer to itwould have appeared sufficiently appalling to Mr Razumov. Where to? Backto his rooms, where the Revolution had sought him out to put to a suddentest his dormant instincts, his half-conscious thoughts and almostwholly unconscious ambitions, by the touch as of some furious anddogmatic religion, with its call to frantic sacrifices, its tenderresignations, its dreams and hopes uplifting the soul by the side of themost sombre moods of despair. And Mr. Razumov had let go the door-handleand had come back to the middle of the room, asking Councillor Mikulinangrily, "What do you mean by it?" As far as I can tell, Councillor Mikulin did not answer that question. He drew Mr. Razumov into familiar conversation. It is the peculiarity ofRussian natures that, however strongly engaged in the drama of action, they are still turning their ear to the murmur of abstract ideas. Thisconversation (and others later on) need not be recorded. Suffice it tosay that it brought Mr. Razumov as we know him to the test of anotherfaith. There was nothing official in its expression, and Mr. Razumov wasled to defend his attitude of detachment. But Councillor Mikulin wouldhave none of his arguments. "For a man like you, " were his last weightywords in the discussion, "such a position is impossible. Don't forgetthat I have seen that interesting piece of paper. I understand yourliberalism. I have an intellect of that kind myself. Reform for me ismainly a question of method. But the principle of revolt is a physicalintoxication, a sort of hysteria which must be kept away from themasses. You agree to this without reserve, don't you? Because, you see, Kirylo Sidorovitch, abstention, reserve, in certain situations, comevery near to political crime. The ancient Greeks understood that verywell. " Mr. Razumov, listening with a faint smile, asked Councillor Mikulinpoint-blank if this meant that he was going to have him watched. The high official took no offence at the cynical inquiry. "No, Kirylo Sidorovitch, " he answered gravely. "I don't mean to have youwatched. " Razumov, suspecting a lie, affected yet the greatest liberty of mindduring the short remainder of that interview. The older man expressedhimself throughout in familiar terms, and with a sort of shrewdsimplicity. Razumov concluded that to get to the bottom of that mind wasan impossible feat. A great disquiet made his heart beat quicker. Thehigh official, issuing from behind the desk, was actually offering toshake hands with him. "Good-bye, Mr Razumov. An understanding between intelligent men isalways a satisfactory occurrence. Is it not? And, of course, these rebelgentlemen have not the monopoly of intelligence. " "I presume that I shall not be wanted any more?" Razumov brought outthat question while his hand was still being grasped. Councillor Mikulinreleased it slowly. "That, Mr. Razumov, " he said with great earnestness, "is as it maybe. God alone knows the future. But you may rest assured that Inever thought of having you watched. You are a young man of greatindependence. Yes. You are going away free as air, but you shall end bycoming back to us. " "I! I!" Razumov exclaimed in an appalled murmur of protest. "What for?"he added feebly. "Yes! You yourself, Kirylo Sidorovitch, " the high police functionaryinsisted in a low, severe tone of conviction. "You shall be coming backto us. Some of our greatest minds had to do that in the end. " "You have no better friend than Prince K---, and as to myself it is along time now since I've been honoured by his.... " He glanced down his beard. "I won't detain you any longer. We live in difficult times, in timesof monstrous chimeras and evil dreams and criminal follies. We shallcertainly meet once more. It may be some little time, though, beforewe do. Till then may Heaven send you fruitful reflections!" Once in thestreet, Razumov started off rapidly, without caring for the direction. At first he thought of nothing; but in a little while the consciousnessof his position presented itself to him as something so ugly, dangerous, and absurd, the difficulty of ever freeing himself from the toils ofthat complication so insoluble, that the idea of going back and, as hetermed it to himself, confessing to Councillor Mikulin flashed throughhis mind. Go back! What for? Confess! To what? "I have been speaking to him withthe greatest openness, " he said to himself with perfect truth. "Whatelse could I tell him? That I have undertaken to carry a message to thatbrute Ziemianitch? Establish a false complicity and destroy what chanceof safety I have won for nothing--what folly!" Yet he could not defend himself from fancying that Councillor Mikulinwas, perhaps, the only man in the world able to understand his conduct. To be understood appeared extremely fascinating. On the way home he had to stop several times; all his strength seemed torun out of his limbs; and in the movement of the busy streets, isolatedas if in a desert, he remained suddenly motionless for a minute or sobefore he could proceed on his way. He reached his rooms at last. Then came an illness, something in the nature of a low fever, which allat once removed him to a great distance from the perplexing actualities, from his very room, even. He never lost consciousness; he only seemed tohimself to be existing languidly somewhere very far away from everythingthat had ever happened to him. He came out of this state slowly, with aneffect, that is to say, of extreme slowness, though the actual numberof days was not very great. And when he had got back into the middle ofthings they were all changed, subtly and provokingly in their nature:inanimate objects, human faces, the landlady, the rustic servant-girl, the staircase, the streets, the very air. He tackled these changedconditions in a spirit of severity. He walked to and fro to theUniversity, ascended stairs, paced the passages, listened to lectures, took notes, crossed courtyards in angry aloofness, his teeth set hardtill his jaws ached. He was perfectly aware of madcap Kostia gazing like a young retrieverfrom a distance, of the famished student with the red drooping nose, keeping scrupulously away as desired; of twenty others, perhaps, heknew well enough to speak to. And they all had an air of curiosity andconcern as if they expected something to happen. "This can't last muchlonger, " thought Razumov more than once. On certain days he was afraidthat anyone addressing him suddenly in a certain way would make himscream out insanely a lot of filthy abuse. Often, after returning home, he would drop into a chair in his cap and cloak and remain still forhours holding some book he had got from the library in his hand; orhe would pick up the little penknife and sit there scraping his nailsendlessly and feeling furious all the time--simply furious. "This isimpossible, " he would mutter suddenly to the empty room. Fact to be noted: this room might conceivably have become physicallyrepugnant to him, emotionally intolerable, morally uninhabitable. But no. Nothing of the sort (and he had himself dreaded it at first), nothing of the sort happened. On the contrary, he liked his lodgingsbetter than any other shelter he, who had never known a home, had everhired before. He liked his lodgings so well that often, on that veryaccount, he found a certain difficulty in making up his mind to go out. It resembled a physical seduction such as, for instance, makes a manreluctant to leave the neighbourhood of a fire on a cold day. For as, at that time, he seldom stirred except to go to the University(what else was there to do?) it followed that whenever he went abroad hefelt himself at once closely involved in the moral consequences of hisact. It was there that the dark prestige of the Haldin mystery fell onhim, clung to him like a poisoned robe it was impossible to fling off. He suffered from it exceedingly, as well as from the conversational, commonplace, unavoidable intercourse with the other kind of students. "They must be wondering at the change in me, " he reflected anxiously. Hehad an uneasy recollection of having savagely told one or two innocent, nice enough fellows to go to the devil. Once a married professor he usedto call upon formerly addressed him in passing: "How is it we never seeyou at our Wednesdays now, Kirylo Sidorovitch?" Razumov was conscious ofmeeting this advance with odious, muttering boorishness. The professorwas obviously too astonished to be offended. All this was bad. And allthis was Haldin, always Haldin--nothing but Haldin--everywhere Haldin:a moral spectre infinitely more effective than any visible apparition ofthe dead. It was only the room through which that man had blundered onhis way from crime to death that his spectre did not seem to be able tohaunt. Not, to be exact, that he was ever completely absent from it, but that there he had no sort of power. There it was Razumov who hadthe upper hand, in a composed sense of his own superiority. A vanquishedphantom--nothing more. Often in the evening, his repaired watch faintlyticking on the table by the side of the lighted lamp, Razumov wouldlook up from his writing and stare at the bed with an expectant, dispassionate attention. Nothing was to be seen there. He never reallysupposed that anything ever could be seen there. After a while he wouldshrug his shoulders slightly and bend again over his work. For he hadgone to work and, at first, with some success. His unwillingness toleave that place where he was safe from Haldin grew so strong that atlast he ceased to go out at all. From early morning till far into thenight he wrote, he wrote for nearly a week; never looking at the time, and only throwing himself on the bed when he could keep his eyes openno longer. Then, one afternoon, quite casually, he happened to glance athis watch. He laid down his pen slowly. "At this very hour, " was his thought, "the fellow stole unseen into thisroom while I was out. And there he sat quiet as a mouse--perhaps inthis very chair. " Razumov got up and began to pace the floor steadily, glancing at the watch now and then. "This is the time when I returnedand found him standing against the stove, " he observed to himself. Whenit grew dark he lit his lamp. Later on he interrupted his tramping oncemore, only to wave away angrily the girl who attempted to enter theroom with tea and something to eat on a tray. And presently he noted thewatch pointing at the hour of his own going forth into the falling snowon that terrible errand. "Complicity, " he muttered faintly, and resumed his pacing, keeping hiseye on the hands as they crept on slowly to the time of his return. "And, after all, " he thought suddenly, "I might have been the choseninstrument of Providence. This is a manner of speaking, but there may betruth in every manner of speaking. What if that absurd saying were truein its essence?" He meditated for a while, then sat down, his legs stretched out, withstony eyes, and with his arms hanging down on each side of the chairlike a man totally abandoned by Providence--desolate. He noted the time of Haldin's departure and continued to sit still foranother half-hour; then muttering, "And now to work, " drew up to thetable, seized the pen and instantly dropped it under the influence of aprofoundly disquieting reflection: "There's three weeks gone by and noword from Mikulin. " What did it mean! Was he forgotten? Possibly. Then why not remainforgotten--creep in somewhere? Hide. But where? How? With whom? In whathole? And was it to be for ever, or what? But a retreat was big with shadowy dangers. The eye of the socialrevolution was on him, and Razumov for a moment felt an unnamed anddespairing dread, mingled with an odious sense of humiliation. Was itpossible that he no longer belonged to himself? This was damnable. But why not simply keep on as before? Study. Advance. Work hard as ifnothing had happened (and first of all win the Silver Medal), acquiredistinction, become a great reforming servant of the greatest of States. Servant, too, of the mightiest homogeneous mass of mankind with acapability for logical, guided development in a brotherly solidarityof force and aim such as the world had never dreamt of... The Russiannation! Calm, resolved, steady in his great purpose, he was stretching his handtowards the pen when he happened to glance towards the bed. He rushed atit, enraged, with a mental scream: "it's you, crazy fanatic, who standsin the way!" He flung the pillow on the floor violently, tore theblankets aside.... Nothing there. And, turning away, he caught foran instant in the air, like a vivid detail in a dissolving view of twoheads, the eyes of General T--- and of Privy-Councillor Mikulin sideby side fixed upon him, quite different in character, but with the sameunflinching and weary and yet purposeful expression... Servants of thenation! Razumov tottered to the washstand very alarmed about himself, drank somewater and bathed his forehead. "This will pass and leave no trace, " hethought confidently. "I am all right. " But as to supposing that he hadbeen forgotten it was perfect nonsense. He was a marked man on thatside. And that was nothing. It was what that miserable phantom stood forwhich had to be got out of the way.... "If one only could go and spitit all out at some of them--and take the consequences. " He imagined himself accosting the red-nosed student and suddenly shakinghis fist in his face. "From that one, though, " he reflected, "there'snothing to be got, because he has no mind of his own. He's living ina red democratic trance. Ah! you want to smash your way into universalhappiness, my boy. I will give you universal happiness, you silly, hypnotized ghoul, you! And what about my own happiness, eh? Haven't Igot any right to it, just because I can think for myself?... " And again, but with a different mental accent, Razumov said to himself, "I am young. Everything can be lived down. " At that moment he wascrossing the room slowly, intending to sit down on the sofa and try tocompose his thoughts. But before he had got so far everything abandonedhim--hope, courage, belief in himself trust in men. His heart had, as itwere, suddenly emptied itself. It was no use struggling on. Rest, work, solitude, and the frankness of intercourse with his kind were alikeforbidden to him. Everything was gone. His existence was a great coldblank, something like the enormous plain of the whole of Russia levelledwith snow and fading gradually on all sides into shadows and mists. He sat down, with swimming head, closed his eyes, and remained likethat, sitting bolt upright on the sofa and perfectly awake for therest of the night; till the girl bustling into the outer room withthe samovar thumped with her fist on the door, calling out, "KiryloSidorovitch, please! It is time for you to get up!" Then, pale like a corpse obeying the dread summons of judgement, Razumovopened his eyes and got up. Nobody will be surprised to hear, I suppose, that when the summons camehe went to see Councillor Mikulin. It came that very morning, while, looking white and shaky, like an invalid just out of bed, he was tryingto shave himself. The envelope was addressed in the little attorney'shandwriting. That envelope contained another, superscribed to Razumov, in Prince K---'s hand, with the request "Please forward under coverat once" in a corner. The note inside was an autograph of CouncillorMikulin. The writer stated candidly that nothing had arisen which neededclearing up, but nevertheless appointed a meeting with Mr. Razumov at acertain address in town which seemed to be that of an oculist. Razumov read it, finished shaving, dressed, looked at the note again, and muttered gloomily, "Oculist. " He pondered over it for a time, lita match, and burned the two envelopes and the enclosure carefully. Afterwards he waited, sitting perfectly idle and not even looking atanything in particular till the appointed hour drew near--and then wentout. Whether, looking at the unofficial character of the summons, he mighthave refrained from attending to it is hard to say. Probably not. At anyrate, he went; but, what's more, he went with a certain eagerness, whichmay appear incredible till it is remembered that Councillor Mikulin wasthe only person on earth with whom Razumov could talk, taking the Haldinadventure for granted. And Haldin, when once taken for granted, was nolonger a haunting, falsehood-breeding spectre. Whatever troubling powerhe exercised in all the other places of the earth, Razumov knew verywell that at this oculist's address he would be merely the hangedmurderer of M. De P--- and nothing more. For the dead can live onlywith the exact intensity and quality of the life imparted to them bythe living. So Mr. Razumov, certain of relief, went to meet CouncillorMikulin with he eagerness of a pursued person welcoming any sort ofshelter. This much said, there is no need to tell anything more of that firstinterview and of the several others. To the morality of a Western readeran account of these meetings would wear perhaps the sinister characterof old legendary tales where the Enemy of Mankind is represented holdingsubtly mendacious dialogues with some tempted soul. It is not my part toprotest. Let me but remark that the Evil One, with his single passionof satanic pride for the only motive, is yet, on a larger, modern view, allowed to be not quite so black as he used to be painted. With whatgreater latitude, then, should we appraise the exact shade of meremortal man, with his many passions and his miserable ingenuity in error, always dazzled by the base glitter of mixed motives, everlastinglybetrayed by a short-sighted wisdom. Councillor Mikulin was one of those powerful officials who, in aposition not obscure, not occult, but simply inconspicuous, exercisea great influence over the methods rather than over the conduct ofaffairs. A devotion to Church and Throne is not in itself a criminalsentiment; to prefer the will of one to the will of many does not arguethe possession of a black heart or prove congenital idiocy. CouncillorMikulin was not only a clever but also a faithful official. Privately hewas a bachelor with a love of comfort, living alone in an apartment offive rooms luxuriously furnished; and was known by his intimates to bean enlightened patron of the art of female dancing. Later on the largerworld first heard of him in the very hour of his downfall, during one ofthose State trials which astonish and puzzle the average plain man whoreads the newspapers, by a glimpse of unsuspected intrigues. And inthe stir of vaguely seen monstrosities, in that momentary, mysteriousdisturbance of muddy waters, Councillor Mikulin went under, dignified, with only a calm, emphatic protest of his innocence--nothing more. Nodisclosures damaging to a harassed autocracy, complete fidelity to thesecrets of the miserable _arcana imperii_ deposited in his patrioticbreast, a display of bureaucratic stoicism in a Russian official'sineradicable, almost sublime contempt for truth; stoicism of silenceunderstood only by the very few of the initiated, and not without acertain cynical grandeur of self-sacrifice on the part of a sybarite. For the terribly heavy sentence turned Councillor Mikulin civilly into acorpse, and actually into something very much like a common convict. It seems that the savage autocracy, no more than the divine democracy, does not limit its diet exclusively to the bodies of its enemies. Itdevours its friends and servants as well. The downfall of His ExcellencyGregory Gregorievitch Mikulin (which did not occur till some yearslater) completes all that is known of the man. But at the time of M. DeP---'s murder (or execution) Councillor Mikulin, under the modest styleof Head of Department at the General Secretariat, exercised a wideinfluence as the confidant and right-hand man of his former schoolfellowand lifelong friend, General T---. One can imagine them talking over thecase of Mr. Razumov, with the full sense of their unbounded powerover all the lives in Russia, with cursory disdain, like two Olympiansglancing at a worm. The relationship with Prince K--- was enough to saveRazumov from some carelessly arbitrary proceeding, and it is also veryprobable that after the interview at the Secretariat he would have beenleft alone. Councillor Mikulin would not have forgotten him (he forgotno one who ever fell under his observation), but would have simplydropped him for ever. Councillor Mikulin was a good-natured man andwished no harm to anyone. Besides (with his own reforming tendencies) hewas favourably impressed by that young student, the son of Prince K---, and apparently no fool. But as fate would have it, while Mr. Razumov was finding that no way oflife was possible to him, Councillor Mikulin's discreet abilities wererewarded by a very responsible post--nothing less than the direction ofthe general police supervision over Europe. And it was then, and thenonly, when taking in hand the perfecting of the service which watchesthe revolutionist activities abroad, that he thought again of Mr. Razumov. He saw great possibilities of special usefulness in thatuncommon young man on whom he had a hold already, with his peculiartemperament, his unsettled mind and shaken conscience, a struggling inthe toils of a false position.... It was as if the revolutioniststhemselves had put into his hand that tool so much finer than the commonbase instruments, so perfectly fitted, if only vested with sufficientcredit, to penetrate into places inaccessible to common informers. Providential! Providential! And Prince K---, taken into the secret, wasready enough to adopt that mystical view too. "It will be necessary, though, to make a career for him afterwards, " he had stipulatedanxiously. "Oh! absolutely. We shall make that our affair, " Mikulin hadagreed. Prince K---'s mysticism was of an artless kind; but CouncillorMikulin was astute enough for two. Things and men have always a certain sense, a certain side by which theymust be got hold of if one wants to obtain a solid grasp and a perfectcommand. The power of Councillor Mikulin consisted in the ability toseize upon that sense, that side in the men he used. It did not matterto him what it was--vanity, despair, love, hate, greed, intelligentpride or stupid conceit, it was all one to him as long as the man couldbe made to serve. The obscure, unrelated young student Razumov, in themoment of great moral loneliness, was allowed to feel that he was anobject of interest to a small group of people of high position. PrinceK--- was persuaded to intervene personally, and on a certain occasiongave way to a manly emotion which, all unexpected as it was, quite upsetMr. Razumov. The sudden embrace of that man, agitated by his loyalty toa throne and by suppressed paternal affection, was a revelation to Mr. Razumov of something within his own breast. "So that was it!" he exclaimed to himself. A sort of contemptuoustenderness softened the young man's grim view of his position ashe reflected upon that agitated interview with Prince K---. Thissimpleminded, worldly ex-Guardsman and senator whose soft grey officialwhiskers had brushed against his cheek, his aristocratic and convincedfather, was he a whit less estimable or more absurd than thatfamine-stricken, fanatical revolutionist, the red-nosed student? And there was some pressure, too, besides the persuasiveness. Mr. Razumov was always being made to feel that he had committed himself. There was no getting away from that feeling, from that soft, unanswerable, "Where to?" of Councillor Mikulin. But no susceptibilitieswere ever hurt. It was to be a dangerous mission to Geneva forobtaining, at a critical moment, absolutely reliable information from avery inaccessible quarter of the inner revolutionary circle. There wereindications that a very serious plot was being matured.... The reposeindispensable to a great country was at stake.... A great scheme oforderly reforms would be endangered.... The highest personages in theland were patriotically uneasy, and so on. In short, Councillor Mikulinknew what to say. This skill is to be inferred clearly from the mentaland psychological self-confession, self-analysis of Mr. Razumov'swritten journal--the pitiful resource of a young man who had near him notrusted intimacy, no natural affection to turn to. How all this preliminary work was concealed from observation need notbe recorded. The expedient of the oculist gives a sufficient instance. Councillor Mikulin was resourceful, and the task not very difficult. Anyfellow-student, even the red-nosed one, was perfectly welcome to see Mr. Razumov entering a private house to consult an oculist. Ultimate successdepended solely on the revolutionary self-delusion which creditedRazumov with a mysterious complicity in the Haldin affair. To becompromised in it was credit enough-and it was their own doing. It wasprecisely _that_ which stamped Mr. Razumov as a providential man, wideas poles apart from the usual type of agent for "European supervision. " And it was _that_ which the Secretariat set itself the task to foster bya course of calculated and false indiscretions. It came at last to this, that one evening Mr. Razumov was unexpectedlycalled upon by one of the "thinking" students whom formerly, beforethe Haldin affair, he used to meet at various private gatherings; a bigfellow with a quiet, unassuming manner and a pleasant voice. Recognizing his voice raised in the ante-room, "May one come in?"Razumov, lounging idly on his couch, jumped up. "Suppose he were comingto stab me?" he thought sardonically, and, assuming a green shade overhis left eye, said in a severe tone, "Come in. " The other was embarrassed; hoped he was not intruding. "You haven't been seen for several days, and I've wondered. " He cougheda little. "Eye better?" "Nearly well now. " "Good. I won't stop a minute; but you see I, that is, we--anyway, Ihave undertaken the duty to warn you, Kirylo Sidorovitch, that you areliving in false security maybe. " Razumov sat still with his head leaning on his hand, which nearlyconcealed the unshaded eye. "I have that idea, too. " "That's all right, then. Everything seems quiet now, but those peopleare preparing some move of general repression. That's of course. But itisn't that I came to tell you. " He hitched his chair closer, dropped hisvoice. "You will be arrested before long--we fear. " An obscure scribe in the Secretariat had overheard a few words of acertain conversation, and had caught a glimpse of a certain report. Thisintelligence was not to be neglected. Razumov laughed a little, and his visitor became very anxious. "Ah! Kirylo Sidorovitch, this is no laughing matter. They have left youalone for a while, but... ! Indeed, you had better try to leave thecountry, Kirylo Sidorovitch, while there's yet time. " Razumov jumped up and began to thank him for the advice with mockingeffusiveness, so that the other, colouring up, took himself off withthe notion that this mysterious Razumov was not a person to be warned oradvised by inferior mortals. Councillor Mikulin, informed the next day of the incident, expressedhis satisfaction. "H'm! Ha! Exactly what was wanted to... " and glanceddown his beard. "I conclude, " said Razumov, "that the moment has come for me to start onmy mission. " "The psychological Moment, " Councillor Mikulin insisted softly--verygravely--as if awed. All the arrangements to give verisimilitude to the appearance of adifficult escape were made. Councillor Mikulin did not expect to seeMr. Razumov again before his departure. These meetings were a risk, andthere was nothing more to settle. "We have said everything to each other by now, Kirylo Sidorovitch, "said the high official feelingly, pressing Razumov's hand with thatunreserved heartiness a Russian can convey in his manner. "There isnothing obscure between us. And I will tell you what! I consider myselffortunate in having--h'm--your... " He glanced down his beard, and, after a moment of thoughtful silence, handed to Razumov a half-sheet of notepaper--an abbreviated note ofmatters already discussed, certain points of inquiry, the line ofconduct agreed on, a few hints as to personalities, and so on. It wasthe only compromising document in the case, but, as Councillor Mikulinobserved, "it could be easily destroyed. Mr. Razumov had better not seeany one now--till on the other side of the frontier, when, of course, itwill be just that.... See and hear and... " He glanced down his beard; but when Razumov declared his intentionto see one person at least before leaving St. Petersburg, CouncillorMikulin failed to conceal a sudden uneasiness. The young man's studious, solitary, and austere existence was well known to him. It was thegreatest guarantee of fitness. He became deprecatory. Had his dearKirylo Sidorovitch considered whether, in view of such a momentousenterprise, it wasn't really advisable to sacrifice every sentiment.... Razumov interrupted the remonstrance scornfully. It was not a youngwoman, it was a young fool he wished to see for a certain purpose. Councillor Mikulin was relieved, but surprised. "Ah! And what for--precisely?" "For the sake of improving the aspect of verisimilitude, " said Razumovcurtly, in a desire to affirm his independence. "I must be trusted inwhat I do. " Councillor Mikulin gave way tactfully, murmuring, "Oh, certainly, certainly. Your judgment... " And with another handshake they parted. The fool of whom Mr. Razumov had thought was the rich and festivestudent known as madcap Kostia. Feather-headed, loquacious, excitable, one could make certain of his utter and complete indiscretion. But thatriotous youth, when reminded by Razumov of his offers of service sometime ago, passed from his usual elation into boundless dismay. "Oh, Kirylo Sidorovitch, my dearest friend--my saviour--what shall Ido? I've blown last night every rouble I had from my dad the other day. Can't you give me till Thursday? I shall rush round to all the usurersI know.... No, of course, you can't! Don't look at me like that. What shall I do? No use asking the old man. I tell you he's given me afistful of big notes three days ago. Miserable wretch that I am. " He wrung his hands in despair. Impossible to confide in the old man. "They" had given him a decoration, a cross on the neck only last year, and he had been cursing the modern tendencies ever since. Just then hewould see all the intellectuals in Russia hanged in a row rather thanpart with a single rouble. "Kirylo Sidorovitch, wait a moment. Don't despise me. I have it. I'll, yes--I'll do it--I'll break into his desk. There's no help for it. Iknow the drawer where he keeps his plunder, and I can buy a chisel on myway home. He will be terribly upset, but, you know, the dear old dufferreally loves me. He'll have to get over it--and I, too. Kirylo, my dearsoul, if you can only wait for a few hours-till this evening--I shallsteal all the blessed lot I can lay my hands on! You doubt me! Why?You've only to say the word. " "Steal, by all means, " said Razumov, fixing him stonily. "To the devil with the ten commandments!" cried the other, with thegreatest animation. "It's the new future now. " But when he entered Razumov's room late in the evening it was with anunaccustomed soberness of manner, almost solemnly. "It's done, " he said. Razumov sitting bowed, his clasped hands hanging between his knees, shuddered at the familiar sound of these words. Kostia deposited slowlyin the circle of lamplight a small brown-paper parcel tied with a pieceof string. "As I've said--all I could lay my hands on. The old boy'll think the endof the world has come. " Razumov nodded from the couch, and contemplatedthe hare-brained fellow's gravity with a feeling of malicious pleasure. "I've made my little sacrifice, " sighed mad Kostia. "And I've to thankyou, Kirylo Sidorovitch, for the opportunity. " "It has cost you something?" "Yes, it has. You see, the dear old duffer really loves me. He'll behurt. " "And you believe all they tell you of the new future and the sacred willof the people?" "Implicitly. I would give my life.... Only, you see, I am like a pigat a trough. I am no good. It's my nature. " Razumov, lost in thought, had forgotten his existence till theyouth's voice, entreating him to fly without loss of time, roused himunpleasantly. "All right. Well--good-bye. " "I am not going to leave you till I've seen you out of St. Petersburg, "declared Kostia unexpectedly, with calm determination. "You can't refuseme that now. For God's sake, Kirylo, my soul, the police may be hereany moment, and when they get you they'll immure you somewhere forages--till your hair turns grey. I have down there the best trotter ofdad's stables and a light sledge. We shall do thirty miles before themoon sets, and find some roadside station.... " Razumov looked up amazed. The journey was decided--unavoidable. Hehad fixed the next day for his departure on the mission. And now hediscovered suddenly that he had not believed in it. He had gone aboutlistening, speaking, thinking, planning his simulated flight, with thegrowing conviction that all this was preposterous. As if anybody everdid such things! It was like a game of make-believe. And now he wasamazed! Here was somebody who believed in it with desperate earnestness. "If I don't go now, at once, " thought Razumov, with a start of fear, "Ishall never go. " He rose without a word, and the anxious Kostia thrusthis cap on him, helped him into his cloak, or else he would have leftthe room bareheaded as he stood. He was walking out silently when asharp cry arrested him. "Kirylo!" "What?" He turned reluctantly in the doorway. Upright, with a stifflyextended arm, Kostia, his face set and white, was pointing an eloquentforefinger at the brown little packet lying forgotten in the circle ofbright light on the table. Razumov hesitated, came back for it under thesevere eyes of his companion, at whom he tried to smile. But the boyish, mad youth was frowning. "It's a dream, " thought Razumov, putting thelittle parcel into his pocket and descending the stairs; "nobody doessuch things. " The other held him under the arm, whispering ofdangers ahead, and of what he meant to do in certain contingencies. "Preposterous, " murmured Razumov, as he was being tucked up in thesledge. He gave himself up to watching the development of the dreamwith extreme attention. It continued on foreseen lines, inexorablylogical--the long drive, the wait at the small station sitting by astove. They did not exchange half a dozen words altogether. Kostia, gloomy himself, did not care to break the silence. At parting theyembraced twice--it had to be done; and then Kostia vanished out of thedream. When dawn broke, Razumov, very still in a hot, stuffy railway-car fullof bedding and of sleeping people in all its dimly lighted length, rosequietly, lowered the glass a few inches, and flung out on the greatplain of snow a small brown-paper parcel. Then he sat down again muffledup and motionless. "For the people, " he thought, staring out of thewindow. The great white desert of frozen, hard earth glided past hiseyes without a sign of human habitation. That had been a waking act; and then the dream had him again: Prussia, Saxony, Wurtemberg, faces, sights, words--all a dream, observed withan angry, compelled attention. Zurich, Geneva--still a dream, minutelyfollowed, wearing one into harsh laughter, to fury, to death--with thefear of awakening at the end. II "Perhaps life is just that, " reflected Razumov, pacing to and fro underthe trees of the little island, all alone with the bronze statue ofRousseau. "A dream and a fear. " The dusk deepened. The pages writtenover and torn out of his notebook were the first-fruit of his "mission. "No dream that. They contained the assurance that he was on the eve ofreal discoveries. "I think there is no longer anything in the way of mybeing completely accepted. " He had resumed his impressions in those pages, some of theconversations. He even went so far as to write: "By the by, I havediscovered the personality of that terrible N. N. A horrible, paunchybrute. If I hear anything of his future movements I shall send awarning. " The futility of all this overcame him like a curse. Even then he couldnot believe in the reality of his mission. He looked round despairingly, as if for some way to redeem his existence from that unconquerablefeeling. He crushed angrily in his hand the pages of the notebook. "Thismust be posted, " he thought. He gained the bridge and returned to the north shore, where heremembered having seen in one of the narrower streets a little obscureshop stocked with cheap wood carvings, its walls lined with extremelydirty cardboard-bound volumes of a small circulating library. Theysold stationery there, too. A morose, shabby old man dozed behindthe counter. A thin woman in black, with a sickly face, produced theenvelope he had asked for without even looking at him. Razumov thoughtthat these people were safe to deal with because they no longer caredfor anything in the world. He addressed the envelope on the counter withthe German name of a certain person living in Vienna. But Razumov knewthat this, his first communication for Councillor Mikulin, wouldfind its way to the Embassy there, be copied in cypher by somebodytrustworthy, and sent on to its destination, all safe, along with thediplomatic correspondence. That was the arrangement contrived to coverup the track of the information from all unfaithful eyes, from allindiscretions, from all mishaps and treacheries. It was to make himsafe--absolutely safe. He wandered out of the wretched shop and made for the post office. Itwas then that I saw him for the second time that day. He was crossingthe Rue Mont Blanc with every appearance of an aimless stroller. Hedid not recognize me, but I made him out at some distance. He wasvery good-looking, I thought, this remarkable friend of Miss Haldin'sbrother. I watched him go up to the letter-box and then retrace hissteps. Again he passed me very close, but I am certain he did not seeme that time, either. He carried his head well up, but he had theexpression of a somnambulist struggling with the very dream which driveshim forth to wander in dangerous places. My thoughts reverted to NataliaHaldin, to her mother. He was all that was left to them of their son andbrother. The westerner in me was discomposed. There was something shocking inthe expression of that face. Had I been myself a conspirator, a Russianpolitical refugee, I could have perhaps been able to draw some practicalconclusion from this chance glimpse. As it was, it only discomposed mestrongly, even to the extent of awakening an indefinite apprehension inregard to Natalia Haldin. All this is rather inexplicable, but suchwas the origin of the purpose I formed there and then to call on theseladies in the evening, after my solitary dinner. It was true that I hadmet Miss Haldin only a few hours before, but Mrs. Haldin herself I hadnot seen for some considerable time. The truth is, I had shirked callingof late. Poor Mrs. Haldin! I confess she frightened me a little. She was oneof those natures, rare enough, luckily, in which one cannot help beinginterested, because they provoke both terror and pity. One dreads theircontact for oneself, and still more for those one cares for, so clearit is that they are born to suffer and to make others suffer, too. It isstrange to think that, I won't say liberty, but the mere liberalism ofoutlook which for us is a matter of words, of ambitions, of votes (andif of feeling at all, then of the sort of feeling which leaves ourdeepest affections untouched), may be for other beings very much likeourselves and living under the same sky, a heavy trial of fortitude, amatter of tears and anguish and blood. Mrs. Haldin had felt the pangsof her own generation. There was that enthusiast brother of hers--theofficer they shot under Nicholas. A faintly ironic resignation isno armour for a vulnerable heart. Mrs. Haldin, struck at through herchildren, was bound to suffer afresh from the past, and to feel theanguish of the future. She was of those who do not know how to healthemselves, of those who are too much aware of their heart, who, neithercowardly nor selfish, look passionately at its wounds--and count thecost. Such thoughts as these seasoned my modest, lonely bachelor's meal. Ifanybody wishes to remark that this was a roundabout way of thinking ofNatalia Haldin, I can only retort that she was well worth some concern. She had all her life before her. Let it be admitted, then, that I wasthinking of Natalia Haldin's life in terms of her mother's character, amanner of thinking about a girl permissible for an old man, not too oldyet to have become a stranger to pity. There was almost all her youthbefore her; a youth robbed arbitrarily of its natural lightness and joy, overshadowed by an un-European despotism; a terribly sombre youthgiven over to the hazards of a furious strife between equally ferociousantagonisms. I lingered over my thoughts more than I should have done. One felt sohelpless, and even worse--so unrelated, in a way. At the last moment Ihesitated as to going there at all. What was the good? The evening was already advanced when, turning into the Boulevard desPhilosophes, I saw the light in the window at the corner. The blind wasdown, but I could imagine behind it Mrs. Haldin seated in the chair, inher usual attitude, looking out for some one, which had lately acquiredthe poignant quality of mad expectation. I thought that I was sufficiently authorized by the light to knock atthe door. The ladies had not retired as yet. I only hoped they wouldnot have any visitors of their own nationality. A broken-down, retiredRussian official was to be found there sometimes in the evening. He wasinfinitely forlorn and wearisome by his mere dismal presence. I thinkthese ladies tolerated his frequent visits because of an ancientfriendship with Mr. Haldin, the father, or something of that sort. Imade up my mind that if I found him prosing away there in his feeblevoice I should remain but a very few minutes. The door surprised me by swinging open before I could ring the bell. Iwas confronted by Miss Haldin, in hat and jacket, obviously on the pointof going out. At that hour! For the doctor, perhaps? Her exclamation of welcome reassured me. It sounded as if I had been thevery man she wanted to see. My curiosity was awakened. She drew me in, and the faithful Anna, the elderly German maid, closed the door, but didnot go away afterwards. She remained near it as if in readiness to letme out presently. It appeared that Miss Haldin had been on the point ofgoing out to find me. She spoke in a hurried manner very unusual with her. She would havegone straight and rung at Mrs. Ziegler's door, late as it was, for Mrs. Ziegler's habits.... Mrs. Ziegler, the widow of a distinguished professor who was an intimatefriend of mine, lets me have three rooms out of her very large and fineapartment, which she didn't give up after her husband's death; but Ihave my own entrance opening on the same landing. It was an arrangementof at least ten years' standing. I said that I was very glad that I hadthe idea to.... Miss Haldin made no motion to take off her outdoor things. I observedher heightened colour, something pronouncedly resolute in her tone. DidI know where Mr. Razumov lived? Where Mr. Razumov lived? Mr. Razumov? At this hour--so urgently? I threwmy arms up in sign of utter ignorance. I had not the slightest ideawhere he lived. If I could have foreseen her question only three hoursago, I might have ventured to ask him on the pavement before the newpost office building, and possibly he would have told me, but verypossibly, too, he would have dismissed me rudely to mind my ownbusiness. And possibly, I thought, remembering that extraordinaryhallucined, anguished, and absent expression, he might have fallen downin a fit from the shock of being spoken to. I said nothing of all thisto Miss Haldin, not even mentioning that I had a glimpse of the youngman so recently. The impression had been so extremely unpleasant that Iwould have been glad to forget it myself. "I don't see where I could make inquiries, " I murmured helplessly. Iwould have been glad to be of use in any way, and would have set off tofetch any man, young or old, for I had the greatest confidence inher common sense. "What made you think of coming to me for thatinformation?" I asked. "It wasn't exactly for that, " she said, in a low voice. She had the airof some one confronted by an unpleasant task. "Am I to understand that you must communicate with Mr. Razumov thisevening?" Natalia Haldin moved her head affirmatively; then, after a glance at thedoor of the drawing-room, said in French-- "_C'est maman_, " and remained perplexed for a moment. Always serious, not a girl to be put out by any imaginary difficulties, my curiosity wassuspended on her lips, which remained closed for a moment. What was Mr. Razumov's connexion with this mention of her mother? Mrs. Haldin had notbeen informed of her son's friend's arrival in Geneva. "May I hope to see your mother this evening?" I inquired. Miss Haldin extended her hand as if to bar the way. "She is in a terrible state of agitation. Oh, you would not he ableto detect.... It's inward, but I who know mother, I am appalled. Ihaven't the courage to face it any longer. It's all my fault; I supposeI cannot play a part; I've never before hidden anything from mother. There has never been an occasion for anything of that sort between us. But you know yourself the reason why I refrained from telling her atonce of Mr. Razumov's arrival here. You understand, don't you? Owing toher unhappy state. And--there--I am no actress. My own feelings beingstrongly engaged, I somehow.... I don't know. She noticed somethingin my manner. She thought I was concealing something from her. Shenoticed my longer absences, and, in fact, as I have been meeting Mr. Razumov daily, I used to stay away longer than usual when I went out. Goodness knows what suspicions arose in her mind. You know that she hasnot been herself ever since.... So this evening she--who has been soawfully silent: for weeks-began to talk all at once. She said that shedid not want to reproach me; that I had my character as she had her own;that she did not want to pry into my affairs or even into my thoughts;for her part, she had never had anything to conceal from herchildren... Cruel things to listen to. And all this in her quiet voice, with that poor, wasted face as calm as a stone. It was unbearable. " Miss Haldin talked in an undertone and more rapidly than I had everheard her speak before. That in itself was disturbing. The ante-roombeing strongly lighted, I could see under the veil the heightened colourof her face. She stood erect, her left hand was resting lightly on asmall table. The other hung by her side without stirring. Now and thenshe caught her breath slightly. "It was too startling. Just fancy! She thought that I was makingpreparations to leave her without saying anything. I knelt by the sideof her chair and entreated her to think of what she was saying! She puther hand on my head, but she persists in her delusion all the same. Shehad always thought that she was worthy of her children's confidence, butapparently it was not so. Her son could not trust her love nor yet herunderstanding--and now I was planning to abandon her in the same crueland unjust manner, and so on, and so on. Nothing I could say.... Itis morbid obstinacy.... She said that she felt there was something, some change in me.... If my convictions were calling me away, whythis secrecy, as though she had been a coward or a weakling not safe totrust? 'As if my heart could play traitor to my children, ' she said.... It was hardly to be borne. And she was smoothing my head all thetime.... It was perfectly useless to protest. She is ill. Her verysoul is.... " I did not venture to break the silence which fell between us. I lookedinto her eyes, glistening through the veil. "I! Changed!" she exclaimed in the same low tone. "My convictionscalling me away! It was cruel to hear this, because my trouble is that Iam weak and cannot see what I ought to do. You know that. And to end itall I did a selfish thing. To remove her suspicions of myself I told herof Mr. Razumov. It was selfish of me. You know we were completelyright in agreeing to keep the knowledge away from her. Perfectly right. Directly I told her of our poor Victor's friend being here I saw howright we have been. She ought to have been prepared; but in my distressI just blurted it out. Mother got terribly excited at once. How longhas he been here? What did he know, and why did he not come to see us atonce, this friend of her Victor? What did that mean? Was she not to betrusted even with such memories as there were left of her son?... Justthink how I felt seeing her, white like a sheet, perfectly motionless, with her thin hands gripping the arms of the chair. I told her it wasall my fault. " I could imagine the motionless dumb figure of the mother in her chair, there, behind the door, near which the daughter was talking to me. The silence in there seemed to call aloud for vengeance against anhistorical fact and the modern instances of its working. That viewflashed through my mind, but I could not doubt that Miss Haldin had hadan atrocious time of it. I quite understood when she said that she couldnot face the night upon the impression of that scene. Mrs. Haldinhad given way to most awful imaginings, to most fantastic and cruelsuspicions. All this had to be lulled at all costs and without loss oftime. It was no shock to me to learn that Miss Haldin had said to her, "I will go and bring him here at once. " There was nothing absurd in thatcry, no exaggeration of sentiment. I was not even doubtful in my "Verywell, but how?" It was perfectly right that she should think of me, but what could I doin my ignorance of Mr. Razumov's quarters. "And to think he may be living near by, within a stone's-throw, perhaps!" she exclaimed. I doubted it; but I would have gone off cheerfully to fetch him from theother end of Geneva. I suppose she was certain of my readiness, sinceher first thought was to come to me. But the service she meant to ask ofme really was to accompany her to the Chateau Borel. I had an unpleasant mental vision of the dark road, of the sombregrounds, and the desolately suspicious aspect of that home of necromancyand intrigue and feminist adoration. I objected that Madame de S-- mostlikely would know nothing of what we wanted to find out. Neither did Ithink it likely that the young man would be found there. I rememberedmy glimpse of his face, and somehow gained the conviction that a man wholooked worse than if he had seen the dead would want to shut himself upsomewhere where he could be alone. I felt a strange certitude that Mr. Razumov was going home when I saw him. "It is really of Peter Ivanovitch that I was thinking, " said Miss Haldinquietly. Ah! He, of course, would know. I looked at my watch. It was twentyminutes past nine only.... Still. "I would try his hotel, then, " I advised. "He has rooms at theCosmopolitan, somewhere on the top floor. " I did not offer to go by myself, simply from mistrust of the reception Ishould meet with. But I suggested the faithful Anna, with a note askingfor the information. Anna was still waiting by the door at the other end of the room, and wetwo discussed the matter in whispers. Miss Haldin thought she must goherself. Anna was timid and slow. Time would be lost in bringing backthe answer, and from that point of view it was getting late, for it wasby no means certain that Mr. Razumov lived near by. "If I go myself, " Miss Haldin argued, "I can go straight to him from thehotel. And in any case I should have to go out, because I must explainto Mr. Razumov personally--prepare him in a way. You have no idea ofmother's state of mind. " Her colour came and went. She even thought that both for her mother'ssake and for her own it was better that they should not be together fora little time. Anna, whom her mother liked, would be at hand. "She could take her sewing into the room, " Miss Haldin continued, leading the way to the door. Then, addressing in German the maid whoopened it before us, "You may tell my mother that this gentleman calledand is gone with me to find Mr. Razumov. She must not be uneasy if I amaway for some length of time. " We passed out quickly into the street, and she took deep breaths of thecool night air. "I did not even ask you, " she murmured. "I should think not, " I said, with a laugh. The manner of my receptionby the great feminist could not be considered now. That he would beannoyed to see me, and probably treat me to some solemn insolence, I hadno doubt, but I supposed that he would not absolutely dare to throw meout. And that was all I cared for. "Won't you take my arm?" I asked. She did so in silence, and neither of us said anything worth recordingtill I let her go first into the great hall of the hotel. It wasbrilliantly lighted, and with a good many people lounging about. "I could very well go up there without you, " I suggested. "I don't like to be left waiting in this place, " she said in a lowvoice. "I will come too. " I led her straight to the lift then. At the top floor the attendantdirected us to the right: "End of the corridor. " The walls were white, the carpet red, electric lights blazed inprofusion, and the emptiness, the silence, the closed doors all alikeand numbered, made me think of the perfect order of some severelyluxurious model penitentiary on the solitary confinement principle. Upthere under the roof of that enormous pile for housing travellersno sound of any kind reached us, the thick crimson felt muffled ourfootsteps completely. We hastened on, not looking at each other till wefound ourselves before the very last door of that long passage. Then oureyes met, and we stood thus for a moment lending ear to a faint murmurof voices inside. "I suppose this is it, " I whispered unnecessarily. I saw Miss Haldin'slips move without a sound, and after my sharp knock the murmur of voicesinside ceased. A profound stillness lasted for a few seconds, and thenthe door was brusquely opened by a short, black-eyed woman in a redblouse, with a great lot of nearly white hair, done up negligently inan untidy and unpicturesque manner. Her thin, jetty eyebrows were drawntogether. I learned afterwards with interest that she was the famous--orthe notorious--Sophia Antonovna, but I was struck then by the quaintMephistophelian character of her inquiring glance, because it was socuriously evil-less, so--I may say--un-devilish. It got softened stillmore as she looked up at Miss Haldin, who stated, in her rich, evenvoice, her wish to see Peter Ivanovitch for a moment. "I am Miss Haldin, " she added. At this, with her brow completely smoothed out now, but without a wordin answer, the woman in the red blouse walked away to a sofa and satdown, leaving the door wide open. And from the sofa, her hands lying on her lap, she watched us enter, with her black, glittering eyes. Miss Haldin advanced into the middle of the room; I, faithful to my partof mere attendant, remained by the door after closing it behind me. Theroom, quite a large one, but with a low ceiling, was scantily furnished, and an electric bulb with a porcelain shade pulled low down over a bigtable (with a very large map spread on it) left its distant parts in adim, artificial twilight. Peter Ivanovitch was not to be seen, neitherwas Mr. Razumov present. But, on the sofa, near Sophia Antonovna, abony-faced man with a goatee beard leaned forward with his hands onhis knees, staring hard with a kindly expression. In a remote corner abroad, pale face and a bulky shape could be made out, uncouth, and as ifinsecure on the low seat on which it rested. The only person known to mewas little Julius Laspara, who seemed to have been poring over the map, his feet twined tightly round the chair-legs. He got down briskly andbowed to Miss Haldin, looking absurdly like a hooknosed boy with abeautiful false pepper-and-salt beard. He advanced, offering his seat, which Miss Haldin declined. She had only come in for a moment to say afew words to Peter Ivanovitch. His high-pitched voice became painfully audible in the room. "Strangely enough, I was thinking of you this very afternoon, NataliaVictorovna. I met Mr. Razumov. I asked him to write me an article onanything he liked. You could translate it into English--with such ateacher. " He nodded complimentarily in my direction. At the name of Razumov anindescribable sound, a sort of feeble squeak, as of some angry smallanimal, was heard in the corner occupied by the man who seemed much toolarge for the chair on which he sat. I did not hear what Miss Haldinsaid. Laspara spoke again. "It's time to do something, Natalia Victorovna. But I suppose you haveyour own ideas. Why not write something yourself? Suppose you came tosee us soon? We could talk it over. Any advice... " Again I did not catch Miss Haldin's words. It was Laspara's voice oncemore. "Peter Ivanovitch? He's retired for a moment into the other room. Weare all waiting for him. " The great man, entering at that moment, lookedbigger, taller, quite imposing in a long dressing-gown of some darkstuff. It descended in straight lines down to his feet. He suggesteda monk or a prophet, a robust figure of same desert-dweller--somethingAsiatic; and the dark glasses in conjunction with this costume made himmore mysterious than ever in the subdued light. Little Laspara went back to his chair to look at the map, the onlybrilliantly lit object in the room. Even from my distant position by thedoor I could make out, by the shape of the blue part representing thewater, that it was a map of the Baltic provinces. Peter Ivanovitchexclaimed slightly, advancing towards Miss Haldin, checked himselfon perceiving me, very vaguely no doubt; and peered with his dark, bespectacled stare. He must have recognized me by my grey hair, because, with a marked shrug of his broad shoulders, he turned to Miss Haldin inbenevolent indulgence. He seized her hand in his thick cushioned palm, and put his other big paw over it like a lid. While those two standing in the middle of the floor were exchanging afew inaudible phrases no one else moved in the room: Laspara, with hisback to us, kneeling on the chair, his elbows propped on the big-scalemap, the shadowy enormity in the corner, the frankly staring man withthe goatee on the sofa, the woman in the red blouse by his side--not oneof them stirred. I suppose that really they had no time, for Miss Haldinwithdrew her hand immediately from Peter Ivanovitch and before I wasready for her was moving to the door. A disregarded Westerner, I threwit open hurriedly and followed her out, my last glance leaving them allmotionless in their varied poses: Peter Ivanovitch alone standing up, with his dark glasses like an enormous blind teacher, and behind him thevivid patch of light on the coloured map, pored over by the diminutiveLaspara. Later on, much later on, at the time of the newspaper rumours (they werevague and soon died out) of an abortive military conspiracy in Russia, I remembered the glimpse I had of that motionless group with itscentral figure. No details ever came out, but it was known that therevolutionary parties abroad had given their assistance, had sentemissaries in advance, that even money was found to dispatch a steamerwith a cargo of arms and conspirators to invade the Baltic provinces. And while my eyes scanned the imperfect disclosures (in which the worldwas not much interested) I thought that the old, settled Europe had beengiven in my person attending that Russian girl something like a glimpsebehind the scenes. A short, strange glimpse on the top floor of a greathotel of all places in the world: the great man himself; the motionlessgreat bulk in the corner of the slayer of spies and gendarmes;Yakovlitch, the veteran of ancient terrorist campaigns; the woman, withher hair as white as mine and the lively black eyes, all in a mysterioushalf-light, with the strongly lighted map of Russia on the table. Thewoman I had the opportunity to see again. As we were waiting for thelift she came hurrying along the corridor, with her eyes fastenedon Miss Haldin's face, and drew her aside as if for a confidentialcommunication. It was not long. A few words only. Going down in the lift, Natalia Haldin did not break the silence. It wasonly when out of the hotel and as we moved along the quay in the freshdarkness spangled by the quay lights, reflected in the black water ofthe little port on our left hand, and with lofty piles of hotels on ourright, that she spoke. "That was Sophia Antonovna--you know the woman?... " "Yes, I know--the famous... " "The same. It appears that after we went out Peter Ivanovitch told themwhy I had come. That was the reason she ran out after us. She namedherself to me, and then she said, 'You are the sister of a brave man whoshall be remembered. You may see better times. ' I told her I hoped tosee the time when all this would be forgotten, even if the name of mybrother were to be forgotten too. Something moved me to say that, butyou understand?" "Yes, " I said. "You think of the era of concord and justice. " "Yes. There is too much hate and revenge in that work. It must be done. It is a sacrifice--and so let it be all the greater. Destruction is thework of anger. Let the tyrants and the slayers be forgotten together, and only the reconstructors be remembered. '' "And did Sophia Antonovna agree with you?" I asked sceptically. "She did not say anything except, 'It is good for you to believe inlove. ' I should think she understood me. Then she asked me if I hoped tosee Mr. Razumov presently. I said I trusted I could manage to bring himto see my mother this evening, as my mother had learned of his beinghere and was morbidly impatient to learn if he could tell us somethingof Victor. He was the only friend of my brother we knew of, and a greatintimate. She said, 'Oh! Your brother--yes. Please tell Mr. Razumov thatI have made public the story which came to me from St. Petersburg. Itconcerns your brother's arrest, ' she added. 'He was betrayed by a man ofthe people who has since hanged himself. Mr. Razumov will explain it allto you. I gave him the full information this afternoon. And please tellMr. Razumov that Sophia Antonovna sends him her greetings. I am goingaway early in the morning--far away. '" And Miss Haldin added, after a moment of silence--"I was so movedby what I heard so unexpectedly that I simply could not speak to youbefore.... A man of the people! Oh, our poor people!" She walked slowly, as if tired out suddenly. Her head drooped; from thewindows of a building with terraces and balconies came the banal soundof hotel music; before the low mean portals of the Casino two redposters blazed under the electric lamps, with a cheap provincialeffect. --and the emptiness of the quays, the desert aspect of thestreets, had an air of hypocritical respectability and of inexpressibledreariness. I had taken for granted she had obtained the address, and let myself beguided by her. On the Mont Blanc bridge, where a few dark figures seemedlost in the wide and long perspective defined by the lights, she said-- "It isn't very far from our house. I somehow thought it couldn't be. The address is Rue de Carouge. I think it must be one of those big newhouses for artisans. " She took my arm confidingly, familiarly, and accelerated her pace. Therewas something primitive in our proceedings. We did not think ofthe resources of civilization. A late tramcar overtook us; a row of_fiacres_ stood by the railing of the gardens. It never entered ourheads to make use of these conveyances. She was too hurried, perhaps, and as to myself--well, she had taken my arm confidingly. As we wereascending the easy incline of the Corraterie, all the shops shutteredand no light in any of the windows (as if all the mercenary populationhad fled at the end of the day), she said tentatively-- "I could run in for a moment to have a look at mother. It would not bemuch out of the way. " I dissuaded her. If Mrs. Haldin really expected to see Razumov thatnight it would have been unwise to show herself without him. The soonerwe got hold of the young man and brought him along to calm her mother'sagitation the better. She assented to my reasoning, and we crosseddiagonally the Place de Theatre, bluish grey with its floor of slabs ofstone, under the electric light, and the lonely equestrian statueall black in the middle. In the Rue de Carouge we were in the poorerquarters and approaching the outskirts of the town. Vacant buildingplots alternated with high, new houses. At the corner of a side streetthe crude light of a whitewashed shop fell into the night, fan-like, through a wide doorway. One could see from a distance the inner wallwith its scantily furnished shelves, and the deal counter painted brown. That was the house. Approaching it along the dark stretch of a fenceof tarred planks, we saw the narrow pallid face of the cut angle, fivesingle windows high, without a gleam in them, and crowned by the heavyshadow of a jutting roof slope. "We must inquire in the shop, " Miss Haldin directed me. A sallow, thinly whiskered man, wearing a dingy white collar and afrayed tie, laid down a newspaper, and, leaning familiarly on bothelbows far over the bare counter, answered that the person I wasinquiring for was indeed his _locataire_ on the third floor, but thatfor the moment he was out. "For the moment, " I repeated, after a glance at Miss Haldin. "Does thismean that you expect him back at once?" He was very gentle, with ingratiating eyes and soft lips. He smiledfaintly as though he knew all about everything. Mr. Razumov, after beingabsent all day, had returned early in the evening. He was very surprisedabout half an hour or a little more since to see him come down again. Mr. Razumov left his key, and in the course of some words which passedbetween them had remarked that he was going out because he needed air. From behind the bare counter he went on smiling at us, his head heldbetween his hands. Air. Air. But whether that meant a long or a shortabsence it was difficult to say. The night was very close, certainly. After a pause, his ingratiating eyes turned to the door, he added-- "The storm shall drive him in. " "There's going to be a storm?" I asked. "Why, yes!" As if to confirm his words we heard a very distant, deep rumbling noise. Consulting Miss Haldin by a glance, I saw her so reluctant to give upher quest that I asked the shopkeeper, in case Mr. Razumov came homewithin half an hour, to beg him to remain downstairs in the shop. Wewould look in again presently. For all answer he moved his head imperceptibly. The approval of MissHaldin was expressed by her silence. We walked slowly down the street, away from the town; the low garden walls of the modest villas doomed todemolition were overhung by the boughs of trees and masses of foliage, lighted from below by gas lamps. The violent and monotonous noise of theicy waters of the Arve falling over a low dam swept towards us with achilly draught of air across a great open space, where a double line oflamp-lights outlined a street as yet without houses. But on the othershore, overhung by the awful blackness of the thunder-cloud, a solitarydim light seemed to watch us with a weary stare. When we had strolled asfar as the bridge, I said-- "We had better get back.... " In the shop the sickly man was studying his smudgy newspaper, now spreadout largely on the counter. He just raised his head when I looked in andshook it negatively, pursing up his lips. I rejoined Miss Haldin outsideat once, and we moved off at a brisk pace. She remarked that she wouldsend Anna with a note the first thing in the morning. I respected hertaciturnity, silence being perhaps the best way to show my concern. The semi-rural street we followed on our return changed gradually to theusual town thoroughfare, broad and deserted. We did not meet four peoplealtogether, and the way seemed interminable, because my companion'snatural anxiety had communicated itself sympathetically to me. At lastwe turned into the Boulevard des Philosophes, more wide, more empty, more dead--the very desolation of slumbering respectability. At thesight of the two lighted windows, very conspicuous from afar, I hadthe mental vision of Mrs. Haldin in her armchair keeping a dreadful, tormenting vigil under the evil spell of an arbitrary rule: a victim oftyranny and revolution, a sight at once cruel and absurd. III "You will come in for a moment?" said Natalia Haldin. I demurred on account of the late hour. "You know mother likes you somuch, " she insisted. "I will just come in to hear how your mother is. " She said, as if to herself, "I don't even know whether she will believethat I could not find Mr. Razumov, since she has taken it into her headthat I am concealing something from her. You may be able to persuadeher.... " "Your mother may mistrust me too, " I observed. "You! Why? What could you have to conceal from her? You are not aRussian nor a conspirator. " I felt profoundly my European remoteness, and said nothing, but I madeup my mind to play my part of helpless spectator to the end. The distantrolling of thunder in the valley of the Rhone was coming nearer to thesleeping town of prosaic virtues and universal hospitality. We crossedthe street opposite the great dark gateway, and Miss Haldin rang at thedoor of the apartment. It was opened almost instantly, as if theelderly maid had been waiting in the ante-room for our return. Her flatphysiognomy had an air of satisfaction. The gentleman was there, shedeclared, while closing the door. Neither of us understood. Miss Haldin turned round brusquely to her. "Who?" "Herr Razumov, " she explained. She had heard enough of our conversation before we left to know why heryoung mistress was going out. Therefore, when the gentleman gave hisname at the door, she admitted him at once. "No one could have foreseen that, " Miss Haldin murmured, with herserious grey eyes fixed upon mine. And, remembering the expression ofthe young man's face seen not much more than four hours ago, the look ofa haunted somnambulist, I wondered with a sort of awe. "You asked my mother first?" Miss Haldin inquired of the maid. "No. I announced the gentleman, " she answered, surprised at our troubledfaces. "Still, " I said in an undertone, "your mother was prepared. " "Yes. But he has no idea.... " It seemed to me she doubted his tact. To her question how long thegentleman had been with her mother, the maid told us that Der Herr hadbeen in the drawing-room no more than a short quarter of an hour. She waited a moment, then withdrew, looking a little scared. Miss Haldingazed at me in silence. "As things have turned out, " I said, "you happen to know exactly whatyour brother's friend has to tell your mother. And surely after that... " "Yes, " said Natalia Haldin slowly. "I only wonder, as I was not herewhen he came, if it wouldn't be better not to interrupt now. " We remained silent, and I suppose we both strained our ears, but nosound reached us through the closed door. The features of Miss Haldinexpressed a painful irresolution; she made a movement as if to go in, but checked herself. She had heard footsteps on the other side of thedoor. It came open, and Razumov, without pausing, stepped out into theante-room. The fatigue of that day and the struggle with himself hadchanged him so much that I would have hesitated to recognize that facewhich, only a few hours before, when he brushed against me in front ofthe post office, had been startling enough but quite different. Ithad been not so livid then, and its eyes not so sombre. They certainlylooked more sane now, but there was upon them the shadow of somethingconsciously evil. I speak of that, because, at first, their glance fell on me, thoughwithout any sort of recognition or even comprehension. I was simply inthe line of his stare. I don't know if he had heard the bell or expectedto see anybody. He was going out, I believe, and I do not think thathe saw Miss Haldin till she advanced towards him a step or two. Hedisregarded the hand she put out. "It's you, Natalia Victorovna.... Perhaps you are surprised... Atthis late hour. But, you see, I remembered our conversations in thatgarden. I thought really it was your wish that I should--without loss oftime... So I came. No other reason. Simply to tell... " He spoke with difficulty. I noticed that, and remembered his declarationto the man in the shop that he was going out because he "needed air. "If that was his object, then it was clear that he had miserably failed. With downcast eyes and lowered head he made an effort to pick up thestrangled phrase. "To tell what I have heard myself only to-day--to-day.... " Through the door he had not closed I had a view of the drawing-room. Itwas lighted only by a shaded lamp--Mrs. Haldin's eyes could not supporteither gas or electricity. It was a comparatively big room, and incontrast with the strongly lighted ante-room its length was lost insemi-transparent gloom backed by heavy shadows; and on that ground I sawthe motionless figure of Mrs. Haldin, inclined slightly forward, with apale hand resting on the arm of the chair. She did not move. With the window before her she had no longer thatattitude suggesting expectation. The blind was down; and outsidethere was only the night sky harbouring a thunder-cloud, and the townindifferent and hospitable in its cold, almost scornful, toleration--arespectable town of refuge to which all these sorrows and hopes werenothing. Her white head was bowed. The thought that the real drama of autocracy is not played on the greatstage of politics came to me as, fated to be a spectator, I had thisother glimpse behind the scenes, something more profound than the wordsand gestures of the public play. I had the certitude that this mother, refused in her heart to give her son up after all. It was morethan Rachel's inconsolable mourning, it was something deeper, moreinaccessible in its frightful tranquillity. Lost in the ill-definedmass of the high-backed chair, her white, inclined profile suggestedthe contemplation of something in her lap, as though a beloved head wereresting there. I had this glimpse behind the scenes, and then Miss Haldin, passing bythe young man, shut the door. It was not done without hesitation. For amoment I thought that she would go to her mother, but she sent in onlyan anxious glance. Perhaps if Mrs. Haldin had moved... But no. Therewas in the immobility of that bloodless face the dreadful aloofness ofsuffering without remedy. Meantime the young man kept his eyes fixed on the floor. The thoughtthat he would have to repeat the story he had told already wasintolerable to him. He had expected to find the two women together. Andthen, he had said to himself, it would be over for all time--for alltime. "It's lucky I don't believe in another world, " he had thoughtcynically. Alone in his room after having posted his secret letter, he had regaineda certain measure of composure by writing in his secret diary. He wasaware of the danger of that strange self-indulgence. He alludes to ithimself, but he could not refrain. It calmed him--it reconciled himto his existence. He sat there scribbling by the light of a solitarycandle, till it occurred to him that having heard the explanation ofHaldin's arrest, as put forward by Sophia Antonovna, it behoved him totell these ladies himself. They were certain to hear the tale throughsome other channel, and then his abstention would look strange, not onlyto the mother and sister of Haldin, but to other people also. Havingcome to this conclusion, he did not discover in himself any markedreluctance to face the necessity, and very soon an anxiety to be donewith it began to torment him. He looked at his watch. No; it was notabsolutely too late. The fifteen minutes with Mrs. Haldin were like the revenge of theunknown: that white face, that weak, distinct voice; that head, atfirst turned to him eagerly, then, after a while, bowed again andmotionless--in the dim, still light of the room in which his wordswhich he tried to subdue resounded so loudly--had troubled him like somestrange discovery. And there seemed to be a secret obstinacy in thatsorrow, something he could not understand; at any rate, something he hadnot expected. Was it hostile? But it did not matter. Nothing could touchhim now; in the eyes of the revolutionists there was now no shadow onhis past. The phantom of Haldin had been indeed walked over, was leftbehind lying powerless and passive on the pavement covered with snow. And this was the phantom's mother consumed with grief and white as aghost. He had felt a pitying surprise. But that, of course, was of noimportance. Mothers did not matter. He could not shake off the poignantimpression of that silent, quiet, white-haired woman, but a sort ofsternness crept into his thoughts. These were the consequences. Well, what of it? "Am I then on a bed of roses?" he had exclaimed to himself, sitting at some distance with his eyes fixed upon that figure of sorrow. He had said all he had to say to her, and when he had finished she hadnot uttered a word. She had turned away her head while he was speaking. The silence which had fallen on his last words had lasted for fiveminutes or more. What did it mean? Before its incomprehensible characterhe became conscious of anger in his stern mood, the old anger againstHaldin reawakened by the contemplation of Haldin's mother. And wasit not something like enviousness which gripped his heart, as if ofa privilege denied to him alone of all the men that had ever passedthrough this world? It was the other who had attained to repose and yetcontinued to exist in the affection of that mourning old woman, inthe thoughts of all these people posing for lovers of humanity. Itwas impossible to get rid of him. "It's myself whom I have given upto destruction, " thought Razumov. "He has induced me to do it. I can'tshake him off. " Alarmed by that discovery, he got up and strode out of the silent, dim room with its silent old woman in the chair, that mother! He neverlooked back. It was frankly a flight. But on opening the door he sawhis retreat cut off: There was the sister. He had never forgotten thesister, only he had not expected to see her then--or ever any more, perhaps. Her presence in the ante-room was as unforeseen as theapparition of her brother had been. Razumov gave a start as though hehad discovered himself cleverly trapped. He tried to smile, but couldnot manage it, and lowered his eyes. "Must I repeat that silly storynow?" he asked himself, and felt a sinking sensation. Nothing solidhad passed his lips since the day before, but he was not in a state toanalyse the origins of his weakness. He meant to take up his hat anddepart with as few words as possible, but Miss Haldin's swift movementto shut the door took him by surprise. He half turned after her, butwithout raising his eyes, passively, just as a feather might stir in thedisturbed air. The next moment she was back in the place she had startedfrom, with another half-turn on his part, so that they came again intothe same relative positions. "Yes, yes, " she said hurriedly. "I am very grateful to you, KiryloSidorovitch, for coming at once--like this.... Only, I wish I had.... Did mother tell you?" "I wonder what she could have told me that I did not know before, " hesaid, obviously to himself, but perfectly audible. "Because I always didknow it, " he added louder, as if in despair. He hung his head. He had such a strong sense of Natalia Haldin'spresence that to look at her he felt would be a relief. It was she whohad been haunting him now. He had suffered that persecution ever sinceshe had suddenly appeared before him in the garden of the Villa Borelwith an extended hand and the name of her brother on her lips.... The ante-room had a row of hooks on the wall nearest to the outer door, while against the wall opposite there stood a small dark table and onechair. The paper, bearing a very faint design, was all but white. Thelight of an electric bulb high up under the ceiling searched that clearsquare box into its four bare corners, crudely, without shadows--astrange stage for an obscure drama. "What do you mean?" asked Miss Haldin. "What is it that you knewalways?" He raised his face, pale, full of unexpressed suffering. But thatlook in his eyes of dull, absent obstinacy, which struck and surprisedeverybody he was talking to, began to pass way. It was as though hewere coming to himself in the awakened consciousness of that marvellousharmony of feature, of lines, of glances, of voice, which made of thegirl before him a being so rare, outside, and, as it were, above thecommon notion of beauty. He looked at her so long that she colouredslightly. "What is it that you knew?" she repeated vaguely. That time he managed to smile. "Indeed, if it had not been for a word of greeting or two, I would doubtwhether your mother was aware at all of my existence. You understand?" Natalia Haldin nodded; her hands moved slightly by her side. "Yes. Is it not heart-breaking? She has not shed a tear yet--not asingle tear. " "Not a tear! And you, Natalia Victorovna? You have been able to cry?" "I have. And then I am young enough, Kirylo Sidorovitch, to believe inthe future. But when I see my mother so terribly distracted, I almostforget everything. I ask myself whether one should feel proud--or onlyresigned. We had such a lot of people coming to see us. There wereutter strangers who wrote asking for permission to call to present theirrespects. It was impossible to keep our door shut for ever. You knowthat Peter Ivanovitch himself.... Oh yes, there was much sympathy, but there were persons who exulted openly at that death. Then, when Iwas left alone with poor mother, all this seemed so wrong in spirit, something not worth the price she is paying for it. But directly I heardyou were here in Geneva, Kirylo Sidorovitch, I felt that you were theonly person who could assist me.... " "In comforting a bereaved mother? Yes!" he broke in in a manner whichmade her open her clear unsuspecting eyes. "But there is a question offitness. Has this occurred to you?" There was a breathlessness in his utterance which contrasted with themonstrous hint of mockery in his intention. "Why!" whispered Natalia Haldin with feeling. "Who more fit than you?" He had a convulsive movement of exasperation, but controlled himself. "Indeed! Directly you heard that I was in Geneva, before even seeing me?It is another proof of that confidence which.... " All at once his tone changed, became more incisive and more detached. "Men are poor creatures, Natalia Victorovna. They have no intuition ofsentiment. In order to speak fittingly to a mother of her lost son onemust have had some experience of the filial relation. It is not the casewith me--if you must know the whole truth. Your hopes have to deal herewith 'a breast unwarmed by any affection, ' as the poet says.... Thatdoes not mean it is insensible, " he added in a lower tone. "I am certain your heart is not unfeeling, " said Miss Haldin softly. "No. It is not as hard as a stone, " he went on in the same introspectivevoice, and looking as if his heart were lying as heavy as a stone inthat unwarmed breast of which he spoke. "No, not so hard. But how toprove what you give me credit for--ah! that's another question. No onehas ever expected such a thing from me before. No one whom my tendernesswould have been of any use to. And now you come. You! Now! No, NataliaVictorovna. It's too late. You come too late. You must expect nothingfrom me. " She recoiled from him a little, though he had made no movement, asif she had seen some change in his face, charging his words with thesignificance of some hidden sentiment they shared together. To me, thesilent spectator, they looked like two people becoming conscious of aspell which had been lying on them ever since they first set eyes oneach other. Had either of them cast a glance then in my direction, Iwould have opened the door quietly and gone out. But neither did; andI remained, every fear of indiscretion lost in the sense of my enormousremoteness from their captivity within the sombre horizon of Russianproblems, the boundary of their eyes, of their feelings--the prison oftheir souls. Frank, courageous, Miss Haldin controlled her voice in the midst of hertrouble. "What can this mean?" she asked, as if speaking to herself. "It may mean that you have given yourself up to vain imaginings while Ihave managed to remain amongst the truth of things and the realities oflife--our Russian life--such as they are. " "They are cruel, " she murmured. "And ugly. Don't forget that--and ugly. Look where you like. Look nearyou, here abroad where you are, and then look back at home, whence youcame. " "One must look beyond the present. " Her tone had an ardent conviction. "The blind can do that best. I have had the misfortune to be bornclear-eyed. And if you only knew what strange things I have seen! Whatamazing and unexpected apparitions!... But why talk of all this?" "On the contrary, I want to talk of all this with you, " she protestedwith earnest serenity. The sombre humours of her brother's friend lefther unaffected, as though that bitterness, that suppressed anger, werethe signs of an indignant rectitude. She saw that he was not an ordinaryperson, and perhaps she did not want him to be other than he appeared toher trustful eyes. "Yes, with you especially, " she insisted. "With youof all the Russian people in the world.... " A faint smile dwelt fora moment on her lips. "I am like poor mother in a way. I too seem unableto give up our beloved dead, who, don't forget, was all in all to us. Idon't want to abuse your sympathy, but you must understand that it is inyou that we can find all that is left of his generous soul. " I was looking at him; not a muscle of his face moved in the least. Andyet, even at the time, I did not suspect him of insensibility. It was asort of rapt thoughtfulness. Then he stirred slightly. "You are going, Kirylo Sidorovitch?" she asked. "I! Going? Where? Oh yes, but I must tell you first.... " His voicewas muffled and he forced himself to produce it with visible repugnance, as if speech were something disgusting or deadly. "That story, youknow--the story I heard this afternoon.... " "I know the story already, " she said sadly. "You know it! Have you correspondents in St. Petersburg too?" "No. It's Sophia Antonovna. I have seen her just now. She sends you hergreetings. She is going away to-morrow. " He had lowered at last his fascinated glance; she too was looking down, and standing thus before each other in the glaring light, between thefour bare walls, they seemed brought out from the confused immensityof the Eastern borders to be exposed cruelly to the observation of myWestern eyes. And I observed them. There was nothing else to do. Myexistence seemed so utterly forgotten by these two that I dared not nowmake a movement. And I thought to myself that, of course, they had tocome together, the sister and the friend of that dead man. The ideas, the hopes, the aspirations, the cause of Freedom, expressed in theircommon affection for Victor Haldin, the moral victim of autocracy, --allthis must draw them to each other fatally. Her very ignorance and hisloneliness to which he had alluded so strangely must work to that end. And, indeed, I saw that the work was done already. Of course. It wasmanifest that they must have been thinking of each other for a long timebefore they met. She had the letter from that beloved brother kindlingher imagination by the severe praise attached to that one name; and forhim to see that exceptional girl was enough. The only cause for surprisewas his gloomy aloofness before her clearly expressed welcome. But hewas young, and however austere and devoted to his revolutionary ideals, he was not blind. The period of reserve was over; he was coming forwardin his own way. I could not mistake the significance of this late visit, for in what he had to say there was nothing urgent. The true causedawned upon me: he had discovered that he needed her and she was movedby the same feeling. It was the second time that I saw them together, and I knew that next time they met I would not be there, eitherremembered or forgotten. I would have virtually ceased to exist for boththese young people. I made this discovery in a very few moments. Meantime, Natalia Haldinwas telling Razumov briefly of our peregrinations from one end of Genevato the other. While speaking she raised her hands above her head tountie her veil, and that movement displayed for an instant the seductivegrace of her youthful figure, clad in the simplest of mourning. In thetransparent shadow the hat rim threw on her face her grey eyes had anenticing lustre. Her voice, with its unfeminine yet exquisite timbre, was steady, and she spoke quickly, frank, unembarrassed. As shejustified her action by the mental state of her mother, a spasm of painmarred the generously confiding harmony of her features. I perceivedthat with his downcast eyes he had the air of a man who is listeningto a strain of music rather than to articulated speech. And in the sameway, after she had ceased, he seemed to listen yet, motionless, as ifunder the spell of suggestive sound. He came to himself, muttering-- "Yes, yes. She has not shed a tear. She did not seem to hear what Iwas saying. I might have told her anything. She looked as if no longerbelonging to this world. " Miss Haldin gave signs of profound distress. Her voice faltered. "Youdon't know how bad it has come to be. She expects now to see _him_!" Theveil dropped from her fingers and she clasped her hands in anguish. "Itshall end by her seeing him, " she cried. Razumov raised his head sharply and attached on her a prolongedthoughtful glance. "H'm. That's very possible, " he muttered in a peculiar tone, as ifgiving his opinion on a matter of fact. "I wonder what.... " Hechecked himself. "That would be the end. Her mind shall be gone then, and her spirit willfollow. " Miss Haldin unclasped her hands and let them fall by her side. "You think so?" he queried profoundly. Miss Haldin's lips were slightlyparted. Something unexpected and unfathomable in that young man'scharacter had fascinated her from the first. "No! There's neither truthnor consolation to be got from the phantoms of the dead, " he added aftera weighty pause. "I might have told her something true; for instance, that your brother meant to save his life--to escape. There can be nodoubt of that. But I did not. " "You did not! But why?" "I don't know. Other thoughts came into my head, " he answered. He seemedto me to be watching himself inwardly, as though he were trying to counthis own heart-beats, while his eyes never for a moment left the faceof the girl. "You were not there, " he continued. "I had made up my mindnever to see you again. " This seemed to take her breath away for a moment. "You.... How is it possible?" "You may well ask.... However, I think that I refrained from tellingyour mother from prudence. I might have assured her that in the lastconversation he held as a free man he mentioned you both.... " "That last conversation was with you, " she struck in her deep, movingvoice. "Some day you must.... " "It was with me. Of you he said that you had trustful eyes. And why Ihave not been able to forget that phrase I don't know. It meantthat there is in you no guile, no deception, no falsehood, nosuspicion--nothing in your heart that could give you a conception of aliving, acting, speaking lie, if ever it came in your way. That you area predestined victim.... Ha! what a devilish suggestion!" The convulsive, uncontrolled tone of the last words disclosed theprecarious hold he had over himself. He was like a man defying his owndizziness in high places and tottering suddenly on the very edge of theprecipice. Miss Haldin pressed her hand to her breast. The dropped blackveil lay on the floor between them. Her movement steadied him. He lookedintently on that hand till it descended slowly, and then raised againhis eyes to her face. But he did not give her time to speak. "No? You don't understand? Very well. " He had recovered his calm by amiracle of will. "So you talked with Sophia Antonovna?" "Yes. Sophia Antonovna told me.... " Miss Haldin stopped, wondergrowing in her wide eyes. "H'm. That's the respectable enemy, " he muttered, as though he werealone. "The tone of her references to you was extremely friendly, " remarkedMiss Haldin, after waiting for a while. "Is that your impression? And she the most intelligent of the lot, too. Things then are going as well as possible. Everything conspiresto... Ah! these conspirators, " he said slowly, with an accent of scorn;"they would get hold of you in no time! You know, Natalia Victorovna, Ihave the greatest difficulty in saving myself from the superstitionof an active Providence. It's irresistible.... The alternative, ofcourse, would be the personal Devil of our simple ancestors. But, ifso, he has overdone it altogether--the old Father of Lies--our nationalpatron--our domestic god, whom we take with us when we go abroad. He hasoverdone it. It seems that I am not simple enough.... That's it! Iought to have known.... And I did know it, " he added in a tone ofpoignant distress which overcame my astonishment. "This man is deranged, " I said to myself, very much frightened. The next moment he gave me a very special impression beyond the range ofcommonplace definitions. It was as though he had stabbed himself outsideand had come in there to show it; and more than that--as though he wereturning the knife in the wound and watching the effect. That was theimpression, rendered in physical terms. One could not defend oneselffrom a certain amount of pity. But it was for Miss Haldin, already sotried in her deepest affections, that I felt a serious concern. Herattitude, her face, expressed compassion struggling with doubt on theverge of terror. "What is it, Kirylo Sidorovitch?" There was a hint of tenderness inthat cry. He only stared at her in that complete surrender of all hisfaculties which in a happy lover would have had the name of ecstasy. "Why are you looking at me like this, Kirylo Sidorovitch? I haveapproached you frankly. I need at this time to see clearly inmyself.... " She ceased for a moment as if to give him an opportunity toutter at last some word worthy of her exalted trust in her brother'sfriend. His silence became impressive, like a sign of a momentousresolution. In the end Miss Haldin went on, appealingly-- "I have waited for you anxiously. But now that you have been moved tocome to us in your kindness, you alarm me. You speak obscurely. It seemsas if you were keeping back something from me. " "Tell me, Natalia Victorovna, " he was heard at last in a strangeunringing voice, "whom did you see in that place?" She was startled, and as if deceived in her expectations. "Where? In Peter Ivanovitch's rooms? There was Mr. Laspara and threeother people. " "Ha! The vanguard--the forlorn hope of the great plot, " he commented tohimself. "Bearers of the spark to start an explosion which is meant tochange fundamentally the lives of so many millions in order that PeterIvanovitch should be the head of a State. " "You are teasing me, " she said. "Our dear one told me once to rememberthat men serve always something greater than themselves--the idea. " "Our dear one, " he repeated slowly. The effort he made to appear unmovedabsorbed all the force of his soul. He stood before her like a beingwith hardly a breath of life. His eyes, even as under great physicalsuffering, had lost all their fire. "Ah! your brother.... But onyour lips, in your voice, it sounds... And indeed in you everything isdivine.... I wish I could know the innermost depths of your thoughts, of your feelings. " "But why, Kirylo Sidorovitch?" she cried, alarmed by these words comingout of strangely lifeless lips. "Have no fear. It is not to betray you. So you went there?... AndSophia Antonovna, what did she tell you, then?" "She said very little, really. She knew that I should hear everythingfrom you. She had no time for more than a few words. " Miss Haldin'svoice dropped and she became silent for a moment. "The man, it appears, has taken his life, " she said sadly. "Tell me, Natalia Victorovna, " he asked after a pause, "do you believein remorse?" "What a question!" "What can _you_ know of it?" he muttered thickly. "It is not for such asyou.... What I meant to ask was whether you believed in the efficacyof remorse?" She hesitated as though she had not understood, then her face lightedup. "Yes, " she said firmly. "So he is absolved. Moreover, that Ziemianitch was a brute, a drunkenbrute. " A shudder passed through Natalia Haldin. "But a man of the people, " Razumov went on, "to whom they, therevolutionists, tell a tale of sublime hopes. Well, the people mustbe forgiven.... And you must not believe all you've heard from thatsource, either, " he added, with a sort of sinister reluctance. "You are concealing something from me, " she exclaimed. "Do you, Natalia Victorovna, believe in the duty of revenge?" "Listen, Kirylo Sidorovitch. I believe that the future shall be mercifulto us all. Revolutionist and reactionary, victim and executioner, betrayer and betrayed, they shall all be pitied together when the lightbreaks on our black sky at last. Pitied and forgotten; for without thatthere can be no union and no love. " "I hear. No revenge for you, then? Never? Not the least bit?" He smiledbitterly with his colourless lips. "You yourself are like the veryspirit of that merciful future. Strange that it does not make iteasier.... No! But suppose that the real betrayer of yourbrother--Ziemianitch had a part in it too, but insignificant and quiteinvoluntary--suppose that he was a young man, educated, an intellectualworker, thoughtful, a man your brother might have trusted lightly, perhaps, but still--suppose.... But there's a whole story there. " "And you know the story! But why, then--" "I have heard it. There is a staircase in it, and even phantoms, butthat does not matter if a man always serves something greater thanhimself--the idea. I wonder who is the greatest victim in that tale?" "In that tale!" Miss Haldin repeated. She seemed turned into stone. "Do you know why I came to you? It is simply because there is no oneanywhere in the whole great world I could go to. Do you understandwhat I say? Not one to go to. Do you conceive the desolation of thethought--no one--to--go--to?" Utterly misled by her own enthusiastic interpretation of two lines inthe letter of a visionary, under the spell of her own dread of lonelydays, in their overshadowed world of angry strife, she was unable tosee the truth struggling on his lips. What she was conscious of was theobscure form of his suffering. She was on the point of extending herhand to him impulsively when he spoke again. "An hour after I saw you first I knew how it would be. The terrors ofremorse, revenge, confession, anger, hate, fear, are like nothing to theatrocious temptation which you put in my way the day you appeared beforeme with your voice, with your face, in the garden of that accursedvilla. " She looked utterly bewildered for a moment; then, with a sort ofdespairing insight went straight to the point. "The story, Kirylo Sidorovitch, the story!" "There is no more to tell!" He made a movement forward, and she actuallyput her hand on his shoulder to push him away; but her strength failedher, and he kept his ground, though trembling in every limb. "It endshere--on this very spot. " He pressed a denunciatory finger to his breastwith force, and became perfectly still. I ran forward, snatching up the chair, and was in time to catch hold ofMiss Haldin and lower her down. As she sank into it she swung half roundon my arm, and remained averted from us both, drooping over the back. He looked at her with an appalling expressionless tranquillity. Incredulity, struggling with astonishment, anger, and disgust, deprivedme for a time of the power of speech. Then I turned on him, whisperingfrom very rage-- "This is monstrous. What are you staying for? Don't let her catch sightof you again. Go away!... " He did not budge. "Don't you understandthat your presence is intolerable--even to me? If there's any sense ofshame in you.... " Slowly his sullen eyes moved ill my direction. "How did this old mancome here?" he muttered, astounded. Suddenly Miss Haldin sprang up from the chair, made a few steps, andtottered. Forgetting my indignation, and even the man himself, I hurriedto her assistance. I took her by the arm, and she let me lead her intothe drawing-room. Away from the lamp, in the deeper dusk of the distantend, the profile of Mrs. Haldin, her hands, her whole figure hadthe stillness of a sombre painting. Miss Haldin stopped, and pointedmournfully at the tragic immobility of her mother, who seemed to watch abeloved head lying in her lap. That gesture had an unequalled force of expression, so far-reaching inits human distress that one could not believe that it pointed out merelythe ruthless working of political institutions. After assisting MissHaldin to the sofa, I turned round to go back and shut the door Framedin the opening, in the searching glare of the white anteroom, my eyesfell on Razumov, still there, standing before the empty chair, as ifrooted for ever to the spot of his atrocious confession. A wonder cameover me that the mysterious force which had torn it out of him hadfailed to destroy his life, to shatter his body. It was there unscathed. I stared at the broad line of his shoulders, his dark head, the amazingimmobility of his limbs. At his feet the veil dropped by Miss Haldinlooked intensely black in the white crudity of the light. He was gazingat it spell-bound. Next moment, stooping with an incredible, savageswiftness, he snatched it up and pressed it to his face with both hands. Something, extreme astonishment perhaps, dimmed my eyes, so that heseemed to vanish before he moved. The slamming of the outer door restored my sight, and I went oncontemplating the empty chair in the empty ante-room. The meaningof what I had seen reached my mind with a staggering shock. I seizedNatalia Haldin by the shoulder. "That miserable wretch has carried off your veil!" I cried, in thescared, deadened voice of an awful discovery. "He.... " The rest remained unspoken. I stepped back and looked down at her, insilent horror. Her hands were lying lifelessly, palms upwards, on herlap. She raised her grey eyes slowly. Shadows seemed to come and go inthem as if the steady flame of her soul had been made to vacillateat last in the cross-currents of poisoned air from the corrupted darkimmensity claiming her for its own, where virtues themselves fester intocrimes in the cynicism of oppression and revolt. "It is impossible to be more unhappy.... " The languid whisper of hervoice struck me with dismay. "It is impossible.... I feel my heartbecoming like ice. " IV Razumov walked straight home on the wet glistening pavement. A heavyshower passed over him; distant lightning played faintly against thefronts of the dumb houses with the shuttered shops all along the Ruede Carouge; and now and then, after the faint flash, there was a faint, sleepy rumble; but the main forces of the thunderstorm remainedmassed down the Rhone valley as if loath to attack the respectable andpassionless abode of democratic liberty, the serious-minded town ofdreary hotels, tendering the same indifferent, hospitality to touristsof all nations and to international conspirators of every shade. The owner of the shop was making ready to close when Razumov entered andwithout a word extended his hand for the key of his room. On reachingit for him, from a shelf, the man was about to pass a small joke as totaking the air in a thunderstorm, but, after looking at the face of hislodger, he only observed, just to say something-- "You've got very wet. " "Yes, I am washed clean, " muttered Razumov, who was dripping from headto foot, and passed through the inner door towards the staircase leadingto his room. He did not change his clothes, but, after lighting the candle, took offhis watch and chain, laid them on the table, and sat down at once towrite. The book of his compromising record was kept in a locked drawer, which he pulled out violently, and did not even trouble to push backafterwards. In this queer pedantism of a man who had read, thought, lived, pen inhand, there is the sincerity of the attempt to grapple by the same meanswith another profounder knowledge. After some passages which have beenalready made use of in the building up of this narrative, or add nothingnew to the psychological side of this disclosure (there is even one moreallusion to the silver medal in this last entry), comes a page anda half of incoherent writing where his expression is baffled by thenovelty and the mysteriousness of that side of our emotional life towhich his solitary existence had been a stranger. Then only he beginsto address directly the reader he had in his mind, trying to express inbroken sentences, full of wonder and awe, the sovereign (he uses thatvery word) power of her person over his imagination, in which lay thedormant seed of her brother's words. "... The most trustful eyes in the world--your brother said of youwhen he was as well as a dead man already. And when you stood before mewith your hand extended, I remembered the very sound of his voice, andI looked into your eyes--and that was enough. I knew that something hadhappened, but I did not know then what.... But don't be deceived, Natalia Victorovna. I believed that I had in my breast nothing but aninexhaustible fund of anger and hate for you both. I remembered that hehad looked to you for the perpetuation of his visionary soul. He, thisman who had robbed me of my hard-working, purposeful existence. I, too, had my guiding idea; and remember that, amongst us, it is more difficultto lead a life of toil and self-denial than to go out in the street andkill from conviction. But enough of that. Hate or no hate, I felt atonce that, while shunning the sight of you, I could never succeed indriving away your image. I would say, addressing that dead man, 'Isthis the way you are going to haunt me?' It is only later on that Iunderstood--only to-day, only a few hours ago. What could I have knownof what was tearing me to pieces and dragging the secret for ever tomy lips? You were appointed to undo the evil by making me betray myselfback into truth and peace. You! And you have done it in the same way, too, in which he ruined me: by forcing upon me your confidence. Onlywhat I detested him for, in you ended by appearing noble and exalted. But, I repeat, be not deceived. I was given up to evil. I exulted inhaving induced that silly innocent fool to steal his father's money. Hewas a fool, but not a thief. I made him one. It was necessary. I hadto confirm myself in my contempt and hate for what I betrayed. I havesuffered from as many vipers in my heart as any social democrat of themall--vanity, ambitions, jealousies, shameful desires, evil passions ofenvy and revenge. I had my security stolen from me, years of good work, my best hopes. Listen--now comes the true confession. The other wasnothing. To save me, your trustful eyes had to entice my thought to thevery edge of the blackest treachery. I could see them constantly lookingat me with the confidence of your pure heart which had not been touchedby evil things. Victor Haldin had stolen the truth of my life from me, who had nothing else in the world, and he boasted of living on throughyou on this earth where I had no place to lay my head on. She will marrysome day, he had said--and your eyes were trustful. And do you know whatI said to myself? I shall steal his sister's soul from her. When we metthat first morning in the gardens, and you spoke to me confidinglyin the generosity of your spirit, I was thinking, 'Yes, he himself bytalking of her trustful eyes has delivered her into my hands!' If youcould have looked then into my heart, you would have cried out aloudwith terror and disgust. "Perhaps no one will believe the baseness of such an intention to bepossible. It's certain that, when we parted that morning, I gloatedover it. I brooded upon the best way. The old man you introduced me toinsisted on walking with me. I don't know who he is. He talked of you, of your lonely, helpless state, and every word of that friend of yourswas egging me on to the unpardonable sin of stealing a soul. Could hehave been the devil himself in the shape of an old Englishman? NataliaVictorovna, I was possessed! I returned to look at you every day, and drink in your presence the poison of my infamous intention. ButI foresaw difficulties. Then Sophia Antonovna, of whom I was notthinking--I had forgotten her existence--appears suddenly with thattale from St. Petersburg.... The only thing needed to make me safe--atrusted revolutionist for ever. "It was as if Ziemianitch had hanged himself to help me on to furthercrime. The strength of falsehood seemed irresistible. These peoplestood doomed by the folly and the illusion that was in them--they beingthemselves the slaves of lies. Natalia Victorovna, I embraced the mightof falsehood, I exulted in it--I gave myself up to it for a time. Whocould have resisted! You yourself were the prize of it. I sat alone inmy room, planning a life, the very thought of which makes me shuddernow, like a believer who had been tempted to an atrocious sacrilege. ButI brooded ardently over its images. The only thing was that there seemedto be no air in it. And also I was afraid of your mother. I never knewmine. I've never known any kind of love. There is something in the mereword.... Of you, I was not afraid--forgive me for telling you this. No, not of you. You were truth itself. You could not suspect me. As toyour mother, you yourself feared already that her mind had given wayfrom grief. Who could believe anything against me? Had not Ziemianitchhanged himself from remorse? I said to myself, 'Let's put it to thetest, and be done with it once for all. ' I trembled when I went in;but your mother hardly listened to what I was saying to her, and, in alittle while, seemed to have forgotten my very existence. I sat lookingat her. There was no longer anything between you and me. You weredefenceless--and soon, very soon, you would be alone.... I thought ofyou. Defenceless. For days you have talked with me--opening your heart. I remembered the shadow of your eyelashes over your grey trustful eyes. And your pure forehead! It is low like the forehead of statues--calm, unstained. It was as if your pure brow bore a light which fell on me, searched my heart and saved me from ignominy, from ultimate undoing. And it saved you too. Pardon my presumption. But there was that in yourglances which seemed to tell me that you.... Your light! your truth!I felt that I must tell you that I had ended by loving you. And to tellyou that I must first confess. Confess, go out--and perish. "Suddenly you stood before me! You alone in all the world to whom Imust confess. You fascinated me--you have freed me from the blindness ofanger and hate--the truth shining in you drew the truth out of me. Now Ihave done it; and as I write here, I am in the depths depths of anguish, but there is air to breathe at last--air! And, by the by, that old mansprang up from somewhere as I was speaking to you, and raged at me likea disappointed devil. I suffer horribly, but I am not in despair. Thereis only one more thing to do for me. After that--if they let me--I shallgo away and bury myself in obscure misery. In giving Victor Haldin up, it was myself, after all, whom I have betrayed most basely. You mustbelieve what I say now, you can't refuse to believe this. Most basely. It is through you that I came to feel this so deeply. After all, it isthey and not I who have the right on their side?--theirs is thestrength of invisible powers. So be it. Only don't be deceived, NataliaVictorovna, I am not converted. Have I then the soul of a slave? No! Iam independent--and therefore perdition is my lot. " On these words, he stopped writing, shut the book, and wrapped it in theblack veil he had carried off. He then ransacked the drawers forpaper and string, made up a parcel which he addressed to Miss Haldin, Boulevard des Philosophes, and then flung the pen away from him into adistant corner. This done, he sat down with the watch before him. He could have gone outat once, but the hour had not struck yet. The hour would be midnight. There was no reason for that choice except that the facts and the wordsof a certain evening in his past were timing his conduct in the present. The sudden power Natalia Haldin had gained over him he ascribed to thesame cause. "You don't walk with impunity over a phantom's breast, "he heard himself mutter. "Thus he saves me, " he thought suddenly. "Hehimself, the betrayed man. " The vivid image of Miss Haldin seemed tostand by him, watching him relentlessly. She was not disturbing. He haddone with life, and his thought even in her presence tried to take animpartial survey. Now his scorn extended to himself. "I had neither thesimplicity nor the courage nor the self-possession to be a scoundrel, or an exceptionally able man. For who, with us in Russia, is to tell ascoundrel from an exceptionally able man?... " He was the puppet of his past, because at the very stroke of midnight hejumped up and ran swiftly downstairs as if confident that, by the powerof destiny, the house door would fly open before the absolute necessityof his errand. And as a matter of fact, just as he got to the bottomof the stairs, it was opened for him by some people of the house cominghome late--two men and a woman. He slipped out through them into thestreet, swept then by a fitful gust of wind. They were, of course, verymuch startled. A flash of lightning enabled them to observe him walkingaway quickly. One of the men shouted, and was starting in pursuit, butthe woman had recognized him. "It's all right. It's only that youngRussian from the third floor. " The darkness returned with a single clapof thunder, like a gun fired for a warning of his escape from the prisonof lies. He must have heard at some time or other and now rememberedunconsciously that there was to be a gathering of revolutionists at thehouse of Julius Laspara that evening. At any rate, he made straight forthe Laspara house, and found himself without surprise ringing at itsstreet door, which, of course, was closed. By that time the thunderstormhad attacked in earnest. The steep incline of the street ran with water, the thick fall of rain enveloped him like a luminous veil in the playof lightning. He was perfectly calm, and, between the crashes, listenedattentively to the delicate tinkling of the doorbell somewhere withinthe house. There was some difficulty before he was admitted. His person was notknown to that one of the guests who had volunteered to go downstairs andsee what was the matter. Razumov argued with him patiently. There couldbe no harm in admitting a caller. He had something to communicate to thecompany upstairs. "Something of importance?" "That'll be for the hearers to judge. " "Urgent?" "Without a moment's delay. " Meantime, one of the Laspara daughters descended the stairs, small lampin hand, in a grimy and crumpled gown, which seemed to hang on her by amiracle, and looking more than ever like an old doll with a dusty brownwig, dragged from under a sofa. She recognized Razumov at once. "How do you do? Of course you may come in. " Following her light, Razumov climbed two flights of stairs from thelower darkness. Leaving the lamp on a bracket on the landing, she openeda door, and went in, accompanied by the sceptical guest. Razumov enteredlast. He closed the door behind him, and stepping on one side, put hisback against the wall. The three little rooms _en suite_, with low, smoky ceilings and lit byparaffin lamps, were crammed with people. Loud talking was going onin all three, and tea-glasses, full, half-full, and empty, stoodeverywhere, even on the floor. The other Laspara girl sat, dishevelledand languid, behind an enormous samovar. In the inner doorway Razumovhad a glimpse of the protuberance of a large stomach, which herecognized. Only a few feet from him Julius Laspara was getting downhurriedly from his high stool. The appearance of the midnight visitor caused no small sensation. Laspara is very summary in his version of that night's happenings. After some words of greeting, disregarded by Razumov, Laspara (ignoringpurposely his guest's soaked condition and his extraordinary manner ofpresenting himself) mentioned something about writing an article. Hewas growing uneasy, and Razumov appeared absent-minded. "I have writtenalready all I shall ever write, " he said at last, with a little laugh. The whole company's attention was riveted on the new-comer, drippingwith water, deadly pale, and keeping his position against the wall. Razumov put Laspara gently aside, as though he wished to be seen fromhead to foot by everybody. By then the buzz of conversations had dieddown completely, even in the most distant of the three rooms. Thedoorway facing Razumov became blocked by men and women, who craned theirnecks and certainly seemed to expect something startling to happen. A squeaky, insolent declaration was heard from that group. "I know this ridiculously conceited individual. " "What individual?" asked Razumov, raising his bowed head, and searchingwith his eyes all the eyes fixed upon him. An intense surprised silencelasted for a time. "If it's me.... " He stopped, thinking over the form of his confession, and found itsuddenly, unavoidably suggested by the fateful evening of his life. "I am come here, " he began, in a clear voice, "to talk of an individualcalled Ziemianitch. Sophia Antonovna has informed me that she would makepublic a certain letter from St. Petersburg.... " "Sophia Antonovna has left us early in the evening, " said Laspara. "It'squite correct. Everybody here has heard.... " "Very well, " Razumov interrupted, with a shade of impatience, for hisheart was beating strongly. Then, mastering his voice so far that therewas even a touch of irony in his clear, forcible enunciation-- "In justice to that individual, the much ill-used peasant, Ziemianitch, I now declare solemnly that the conclusions of that letter calumniate aman of the people--a bright Russian soul. Ziemianitch had nothing to dowith the actual arrest of Victor Haldin. " Razumov dwelt on the name heavily, and then waited till the faint, mournful murmur which greeted it had died out. "Victor Victorovitch Haldin, " he began again, "acting with, no doubt, noble-minded imprudence, took refuge with a certain student of whoseopinions he knew nothing but what his own illusions suggested to hisgenerous heart. It was an unwise display of confidence. But I am nothere to appreciate the actions of Victor Haldin. Am I to tell you ofthe feelings of that student, sought out in his obscure solitude, andmenaced by the complicity forced upon him? Am I to tell you what he did?It's a rather complicated story. In the end the student went to GeneralT--- himself, and said, 'I have the man who killed de P--- locked up inmy room, Victor Haldin--a student like myself. '" A great buzz arose, in which Razumov raised his voice. "Observe--that man had certain honest ideals in view. But I didn't comehere to explain him. " "No. But you must explain how you know all this, " came in grave tonesfrom somebody. "A vile coward!" This simple cry vibrated with indignation. "Name him!"shouted other voices. "What are you clamouring for?" said Razumov disdainfully, in theprofound silence which fell on the raising of his hand. "Haven't you allunderstood that I am that man?" Laspara went away brusquely from his side and climbed upon his stool. In the first forward surge of people towards him, Razumov expected tobe torn to pieces, but they fell back without touching him, and nothingcame of it but noise. It was bewildering. His head ached terribly. In the confused uproar he made out several times the name of PeterIvanovitch, the word "judgement, " and the phrase, "But this is aconfession, " uttered by somebody in a desperate shriek. In the midstof the tumult, a young man, younger than himself, approached him withblazing eyes. "I must beg you, " he said, with venomous politeness, "to be good enoughnot to move from this spot till you are told what you are to do. " Razumov shrugged his shoulders. "I came in voluntarily. " "Maybe. But you won't go out till you are permitted, " retorted theother. He beckoned with his hand, calling out, "Louisa! Louisa! come here, please"; and, presently, one of the Laspara girls (they had been staringat Razumov from behind the samovar) came along, trailing a bedraggledtail of dirty flounces, and dragging with her a chair, which she setagainst the door, and, sitting down on it, crossed her legs. The youngman thanked her effusively, and rejoined a group carrying on an animateddiscussion in low tones. Razumov lost himself for a moment. A squeaky voice screamed, "Confession or no confession, you are a policespy!" The revolutionist Nikita had pushed his way in front of Razumov, andfaced him with his big, livid cheeks, his heavy paunch, bull neck, andenormous hands. Razumov looked at the famous slayer of gendarmes insilent disgust. "And what are you?" he said, very low, then shut his eyes, and restedthe back of his head against the wall. "It would be better for you to depart now. " Razumov heard a mild, sadvoice, and opened his eyes. The gentle speaker was an elderly man, witha great brush of fine hair making a silvery halo all round hiskeen, intelligent face. "Peter Ivanovitch shall be informed of yourconfession--and you shall be directed.... " Then, turning to Nikita, nicknamed Necator, standing by, he appealed tohim in a murmur-- "What else can we do? After this piece of sincerity he cannot bedangerous any longer. " The other muttered, "Better make sure of that before we let him go. Leave that to me. I know how to deal with such gentlemen. " He exchanged meaning glances with two or three men, who nodded slightly, then turning roughly to Razumov, "You have heard? You are not wantedhere. Why don't you get out?" The Laspara girl on guard rose, and pulled the chair out of the wayunemotionally. She gave a sleepy stare to Razumov, who started, lookedround the room and passed slowly by her as if struck by some suddenthought. "I beg you to observe, " he said, already on the landing, "that I hadonly to hold my tongue. To-day, of all days since I came amongst you, I was made safe, and to-day I made myself free from falsehood, fromremorse--independent of every single human being on this earth. " He turned his back on the room, and walked towards the stairs, but, atthe violent crash of the door behind him, he looked over his shoulderand saw that Nikita, with three others, had followed him out. "They aregoing to kill me, after all, " he thought. Before he had time to turn round and confront them fairly, they seton him with a rush. He was driven headlong against the wall. "I wonderhow, " he completed his thought. Nikita cried, with a shrill laugh rightin his face, "We shall make you harmless. You wait a bit. " Razumov did not struggle. The three men held him pinned againstthe wall, while Nikita, taking up a position a little on one side, deliberately swung off his enormous arm. Razumov, looking for a knifein his hand, saw it come at him open, unarmed, and received a tremendousblow on the side of his head over his ear. At the same time he heard afaint, dull detonating sound, as if some one had fired a pistol on theother side of the wall. A raging fury awoke in him at this outrage. The people in Laspara's rooms, holding their breath, listened to thedesperate scuffling of four men all over the landing; thuds against thewalls, a terrible crash against the very door, then all of them wentdown together with a violence which seemed to shake the whole house. Razumov, overpowered, breathless, crushed under the weight of hisassailants, saw the monstrous Nikita squatting on his heels near hishead, while the others held him down, kneeling on his chest, grippinghis throat, lying across his legs. "Turn his face the other way, " the paunchy terrorist directed, in anexcited, gleeful squeak. Razumov could struggle no longer. He was exhausted; he had to watchpassively the heavy open hand of the brute descend again in a degradingblow over his other ear. It seemed to split his head in two, and all atonce the men holding him became perfectly silent--soundless as shadows. In silence they pulled him brutally to his feet, rushed with himnoiselessly down the staircase, and, opening the door, flung him outinto the street. He fell forward, and at once rolled over and over helplessly, going downthe short slope together with the rush of running rain water. He came torest in the roadway of the street at the bottom, lying on his back, with a great flash of lightning over his face--a vivid, silent flash oflightning which blinded him utterly. He picked himself up, and put hisarm over his eyes to recover his sight. Not a sound reached him fromanywhere, and he began to walk, staggering, down a long, empty street. The lightning waved and darted round him its silent flames, the water ofthe deluge fell, ran, leaped, drove--noiseless like the drift of mist. In this unearthly stillness his footsteps fell silent on the pavement, while a dumb wind drove him on and on, like a lost mortal in a phantomworld ravaged by a soundless thunderstorm. God only knows where hisnoiseless feet took him to that night, here and there, and back againwithout pause or rest. Of one place, at least, where they did leadhim, we heard afterwards; and, in the morning, the driver of the firstsouth-shore tramcar, clanging his bell desperately, saw a bedraggled, soaked man without a hat, and walking in the roadway unsteadily with hishead down, step right in front of his car, and go under. When they picked him up, with two broken limbs and a crushed side, Razumov had not lost consciousness. It was as though he had tumbled, smashing himself, into a world of mutes. Silent men, moving unheard, lifted him up, laid him on the sidewalk, gesticulating and grimacinground him their alarm, horror, and compassion. A red face withmoustaches stooped close over him, lips moving, eyes rolling. Razumovtried hard to understand the reason of this dumb show. To those whostood around him, the features of that stranger, so grievously hurt, seemed composed in meditation. Afterwards his eyes sent out at thema look of fear and closed slowly. They stared at him. Razumov made aneffort to remember some French words. "_Je suis sourd_, " he had time to utter feebly, before he fainted. "He is deaf, " they exclaimed to each other. "That's why he did not hearthe car. " They carried him off in that same car. Before it started on its journey, a woman in a shabby black dress, who had run out of the iron gate ofsome private grounds up the road, clambered on to the rear platform andwould not be put off. "I am a relation, " she insisted, in bad French. "This young man is aRussian, and I am his relation. " On this plea they let her have her way. She sat down calmly, and took his head on her lap; her scared faded eyesavoided looking at his deathlike face. At the corner of a street, on theother side of the town, a stretcher met the car. She followed it to thedoor of the hospital, where they let her come in and see him laid on abed. Razumov's new-found relation never shed a tear, but the officialshad some difficulty in inducing her to go away. The porter observed herlingering on the opposite pavement for a long time. Suddenly, as thoughshe had remembered something, she ran off. The ardent hater of all Finance ministers, the slave of Madame de S--, had made up her mind to offer her resignation as lady companion tothe Egeria of Peter Ivanovitch. She had found work to do after her ownheart. But hours before, while the thunderstorm still raged in the night, therehad been in the rooms of Julius Laspara a great sensation. The terribleNikita, coming in from the landing, uplifted his squeaky voice inhorrible glee before all the company-- "Razumov! Mr. Razumov! The wonderful Razumov! He shall never be any useas a spy on any one. He won't talk, because he will never hear anythingin his life--not a thing! I have burst the drums of his ears for him. Oh, you may trust me. I know the trick. Ha! Ha! Ha! I know the trick. " V It was nearly a fortnight after her mother's funeral that I saw NataliaHaldin for the last time. In those silent, sombre days the doors of the _appartement_ on theBoulevard des Philosophes were closed to every one but myself. I believeI was of some use, if only in this, that I alone was aware of theincredible part of the situation. Miss Haldin nursed her mother aloneto the last moment. If Razumov's visit had anything to do withMrs. Haldin's end (and I cannot help thinking that it hastened itconsiderably), it is because the man, trusted impulsively by theill-fated Victor Haldin, had failed to gain the confidence of VictorHaldin's mother. What tale, precisely, he told her cannot be known--atany rate, I do not know it--but to me she seemed to die from the shockof an ultimate disappointment borne in silence. She had not believedhim. Perhaps she could not longer believe any one, and consequently hadnothing to say to any one--not even to her daughter. I suspect that MissHaldin lived the heaviest hours of her life by that silent death-bed. I confess I was angry with the broken-hearted old woman passing away inthe obstinacy of her mute distrust of her daughter. When it was all over I stood aside. Miss Haldin had her compatriotsround her then. A great number of them attended the funeral. I wasthere too, but afterwards managed to keep away from Miss Haldin, till Ireceived a short note rewarding my self-denial. "It is as you would haveit. I am going back to Russia at once. My mind is made up. Come and seeme. " Verily, it was a reward of discretion. I went without delay to receiveit. The _appartement_ of the Boulevard des Philosophes presented thedreary signs of impending abandonment. It looked desolate and as ifalready empty to my eyes. Standing, we exchanged a few words about her health, mine, remarks as tosome people of the Russian colony, and then Natalia Haldin, establishingme on the sofa, began to talk openly of her future work, of her plans. It was all to be as I had wished it. And it was to be for life. Weshould never see each other again. Never! I gathered this success to my breast. Natalia Haldin looked matured byher open and secret experiences. With her arms folded she walked up anddown the whole length of the room, talking slowly, smooth-browed, with aresolute profile. She gave me a new view of herself, and I marvelled atthat something grave and measured in her voice, in her movements, in hermanner. It was the perfection of collected independence. The strengthof her nature had come to surface because the obscure depths had beenstirred. "We two can talk of it now, " she observed, after a silence and stoppingshort before me. "Have you been to inquire at the hospital lately?" "Yes, I have. " And as she looked at me fixedly, "He will live, thedoctors say. But I thought that Tekla.... " "Tekla has not been near me for several days, " explained Miss Haldinquickly. "As I never offered to go to the hospital with her, she thinksthat I have no heart. She is disillusioned about me. " And Miss Haldin smiled faintly. "Yes. She sits with him as long and as often as they will let her, " Isaid. "She says she must never abandon him--never as long as she lives. He'll need somebody--a hopeless cripple, and stone deaf with that. " "Stone deaf? I didn't know, " murmured Natalia Haldin. "He is. It seems strange. I am told there were no apparent injuries tothe head. They say, too, that it is not very likely that he will live sovery long for Tekla to take care of him. " Miss Haldin shook her head. "While there are travellers ready to fall by the way our Tekla shallnever be idle. She is a good Samaritan by an irresistible vocation. Therevolutionists didn't understand her. Fancy a devoted creature like thatbeing employed to carry about documents sewn in her dress, or made towrite from dictation. " "There is not much perspicacity in the world. " No sooner uttered, I regretted that observation. Natalia Haldin, lookingme straight in the face, assented by a slight movement of her head. Shewas not offended, but turning away began to pace the room again. To mywestern eyes she seemed to be getting farther and farther from me, quitebeyond my reach now, but undiminished in the increasing distance. Iremained silent as though it were hopeless to raise my voice. The soundof hers, so close to me, made me start a little. "Tekla saw him picked up after the accident. The good soul neverexplained to me really how it came about. She affirms that there wassome understanding between them--some sort of compact--that in any soreneed, in misfortune, or difficulty, or pain, he was to come to her. " "Was there?" I said. "It is lucky for him that there was, then. He'llneed all the devotion of the good Samaritan. " It was a fact that Tekla, looking out of her window at five in themorning, for some reason or other, had beheld Razumov in the grounds ofthe Chateau Borel, standing stockstill, bare-headed in the rain, at thefoot of the terrace. She had screamed out to him, by name, to knowwhat was the matter. He never even raised his head. By the time she haddressed herself sufficiently to run downstairs he was gone. She startedin pursuit, and rushing out into the road, came almost directly upon thearrested tramcar and the small knot of people picking up Razumov. Thatmuch Tekla had told me herself one afternoon we happened to meet at thedoor of the hospital, and without any kind of comment. But I did notwant to meditate very long on the inwardness of this peculiar episode. "Yes, Natalia Victorovna, he shall need somebody when they dismiss him, on crutches and stone deaf from the hospital. But I do not think thatwhen he rushed like an escaped madman into the grounds of the ChateauBorel it was to seek the help of that good Tekla. " "No, " said Natalia, stopping short before me, "perhaps not. " She satdown and leaned her head on her hand thoughtfully. The silence lastedfor several minutes. During that time I remembered the evening of hisatrocious confession--the plaint she seemed to have hardly enough lifeleft in her to utter, "It is impossible to be more unhappy.... " Therecollection would have given me a shudder if I had not been lostin wonder at her force and her tranquillity. There was no longer anyNatalia Haldin, because she had completely ceased to think of herself. It was a great victory, a characteristically Russian exploit inself-suppression. She recalled me to myself by getting up suddenly like a person who hascome to a decision. She walked to the writing-table, now stripped of allthe small objects associated with her by daily use--a mere piece of deadfurniture; but it contained something living, still, since she took froma recess a flat parcel which she brought to me. "It's a book, " she said rather abruptly. "It was sent to me wrappedup in my veil. I told you nothing at the time, but now I've decided toleave it with you. I have the right to do that. It was sent to me. Itis mine. You may preserve it, or destroy it after you have read it. Andwhile you read it, please remember that I was defenceless. And thathe.. " "Defenceless!" I repeated, surprised, looking hard at her. "You'll find the very word written there, " she whispered. "Well, it'strue! I _was_ defenceless--but perhaps you were able to see that foryourself. " Her face coloured, then went deadly pale. "In justice to theman, I want you to remember that I was. Oh, I was, I was!" I rose, a little shakily. "I am not likely to forget anything you say at this our last parting. " Her hand fell into mine. "It's difficult to believe that it must be good-bye with us. " She returned my pressure and our hands separated. "Yes. I am leaving here to-morrow. My eyes are open at last and my handsare free now. As for the rest--which of us can fail to hear the stifledcry of our great distress? It may be nothing to the world. " "The world is more conscious of your discordant voices, " I said. "It isthe way of the world. " "Yes. " She bowed her head in assent, and hesitated for a moment. "I mustown to you that I shall never give up looking forward to the day whenall discord shall be silenced. Try to imagine its dawn! The tempest ofblows and of execrations is over; all is still; the new sun is rising, and the weary men united at last, taking count in their conscience ofthe ended contest, feel saddened by their victory, because so many ideashave perished for the triumph of one, so many beliefs have abandonedthem without support. They feel alone on the earth and gather closetogether. Yes, there must be many bitter hours! But at last the anguishof hearts shall be extinguished in love. " And on this last word of her wisdom, a word so sweet, so bitter, socruel sometimes, I said good-bye to Natalia Haldin. It is hard to thinkI shall never look any more into the trustful eyes of that girl--weddedto an invincible belief in the advent of loving concord springing likea heavenly flower from the soil of men's earth, soaked in blood, torn bystruggles, watered with tears. It must be understood that at that time I didn't know anything of Mr. Razumov's confession to the assembled revolutionists. Natalia Haldinmight have guessed what was the "one thing more" which remained for himto do; but this my western eyes had failed to see. Tekla, the ex-lady companion of Madame de S--, haunted his bedside atthe hospital. We met once or twice at the door of that establishment, but on these occasions she was not communicative. She gave me news ofMr. Razumov as concisely as possible. He was making a slow recovery, butwould remain a hopeless cripple all his life. Personally, I never wentnear him: I never saw him again, after the awful evening when I stoodby, a watchful but ignored spectator of his scene with Miss Haldin. Hewas in due course discharged from the hospital, and his "relative"--so Iwas told--had carried him off somewhere. My information was completed nearly two years later. The opportunity, certainly, was not of my seeking; it was quite accidentally that I met amuch-trusted woman revolutionist at the house of a distinguished Russiangentleman of liberal convictions, who came to live in Geneva for a time. He was a quite different sort of celebrity from Peter Ivanovitch--adark-haired man with kind eyes, high-shouldered, courteous, and withsomething hushed and circumspect in his manner. He approachedme, choosing the moment when there was no one near, followed by agrey-haired, alert lady in a crimson blouse. "Our Sophia Antonovna wishes to be made known to you, " he addressed me, in his guarded voice. "And so I leave you two to have a talk together. " "I would never have intruded myself upon your notice, " the grey-hairedlady began at once, "if I had not been charged with a message for you. " It was a message of a few friendly words from Natalia Haldin. SophiaAntonovna had just returned from a secret excursion into Russia, andhad seen Miss Haldin. She lived in a town "in the centre, " sharing hercompassionate labours between the horrors of overcrowded jails, and theheartrending misery of bereaved homes. She did not spare herself in goodservice, Sophia Antonovna assured me. "She has a faithful soul, an undaunted spirit and an indefatigablebody, " the woman revolutionist summed it all up, with a touch ofenthusiasm. A conversation thus engaged was not likely to drop from want of intereston my side. We went to sit apart in a corner where no one interruptedus. In the course of our talk about Miss Haldin, Sophia Antonovnaremarked suddenly-- "I suppose you remember seeing me before? That evening when Natalia cameto ask Peter Ivanovitch for the address of a certain Razumov, that youngman who... " "I remember perfectly, " I said. When Sophia Antonovna learned that I hadin my possession that young man's journal given me by Miss Haldin shebecame intensely interested. She did not conceal her curiosity to seethe document. I offered to show it to her, and she at once volunteered to call on menext day for that purpose. She turned over the pages greedily for an hour or more, and then handedme the book with a faint sigh. While moving about Russia, she had seenRazumov too. He lived, not "in the centre, " but "in the south. " Shedescribed to me a little two-roomed wooden house, in the suburb of somevery small town, hiding within the high plank-fence of a yard overgrownwith nettles. He was crippled, ill, getting weaker every day, and Teklathe Samaritan tended him unweariedly with the pure joy of unselfishdevotion. There was nothing in that task to become disillusioned about. I did not hide from Sophia Antonovna my surprise that she should havevisited Mr. Razumov. I did not even understand the motive. But sheinformed me that she was not the only one. "Some of _us_ always go to see him when passing through. He isintelligent. We has ideas.... He talks well, too. " Presently I heard for the first time of Razumov's public confession inLaspara's house. Sophia Antonovna gave me a detailed relation of whathad occurred there. Razumov himself had told her all about it, mostminutely. Then, looking hard at me with her brilliant black eyes-- "There are evil moments in every life. A false suggestion enters one'sbrain, and then fear is born--fear of oneself, fear for oneself. Or elsea false courage--who knows? Well, call it what you like; but tell me, how many of them would deliver themselves up deliberately to perdition(as he himself says in that book) rather than go on living, secretlydebased in their own eyes? How many?... And please mark this--hewas safe when he did it. It was just when he believed himself safeand more--infinitely more--when the possibility of being loved bythat admirable girl first dawned upon him, that he discovered that hisbitterest railings, the worst wickedness, the devil work of his hate andpride, could never cover up the ignominy of the existence before him. There's character in such a discovery. " I accepted her conclusion in silence. Who would care to question thegrounds of forgiveness or compassion? However, it appeared later on, that there was some compunction, too, in the charity extended by therevolutionary world to Razumov the betrayer. Sophia Antonovna continueduneasily-- "And then, you know, he was the victim of an outrage. It was notauthorized. Nothing was decided as to what was to be done with him. Hehad confessed voluntarily. And that Nikita who burst the drums of hisears purposely, out on the landing, you know, as if carried away byindignation--well, he has turned out to be a scoundrel of the worstkind--a traitor himself, a betrayer--a spy! Razumov told me he hadcharged him with it by a sort of inspiration.... " "I had a glimpse of that brute, " I said. "How any of you could have beendeceived for half a day passes my comprehension!" She interrupted me. "There! There! Don't talk of it. The first time I saw him, I, too, wasappalled. They cried me down. We were always telling each other, 'Oh!you mustn't mind his appearance. ' And then he was always ready to kill. There was no doubt of it. He killed--yes! in both camps. The fiend.... " Then Sophia Antonovna, after mastering the angry trembling of her lips, told me a very queer tale. It went that Councillor Mikulin, travellingin Germany (shortly after Razumov's disappearance from Geneva), happenedto meet Peter Ivanovitch in a railway carriage. Being alone in thecompartment, these two talked together half the night, and it was thenthat Mikulin the Police Chief gave a hint to the Arch-Revolutionistas to the true character of the arch-slayer of gendarmes. It looks asthough Mikulin had wanted to get rid of that particular agent of hisown! He might have grown tired of him, or frightened of him. It mustalso be said that Mikulin had inherited the sinister Nikita from hispredecessor in office. And this story, too, I received without comment in my character of amute witness of things Russian, unrolling their Eastern logic under myWestern eyes. But I permitted myself a question-- "Tell me, please, Sophia Antonovna, did Madame de S-- leave all herfortune to Peter Ivanovitch?" "Not a bit of it. " The woman revolutionist shrugged her shoulders indisgust. "She died without making a will. A lot of nephews and niecescame down from St. Petersburg, like a flock of vultures, and foughtfor her money amongst themselves. All beastly Kammerherrs and Maids ofHonour--abominable court flunkeys. Tfui!" "One does not hear much of Peter Ivanovitch now, " I remarked, after apause. "Peter Ivanovitch, " said Sophia Antonovna gravely, "has united himselfto a peasant girl. " I was truly astonished. "What! On the Riviera?" "What nonsense! Of course not. " Sophia Antonovna's tone was slightly tart. "Is he, then, living actually in Russia? It's a tremendous risk--isn'tit?" I cried. "And all for the sake of a peasant girl. Don't you thinkit's very wrong of him?" Sophia Antonovna preserved a mysterious silence for a while, then made astatement. "He just simply adores her. " "Does he? Well, then, I hope that she won't hesitate to beat him. " Sophia Antonovna got up and wished me good-bye, as though she had notheard a word of my impious hope; but, in the very doorway, where Iattended her, she turned round for an instant, and declared in a firmvoice-- "Peter Ivanovitch is an inspired man. "