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 h
is 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 wen
tout.
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 creditedRazumo
v 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 kno
ck 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 theoth
er 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