PART FOUR
I
That I should, at the beginning of this retrospect, mention again that Mr.
Razumov's youth had no one in the world, as literally no one as it can be
honestly affirmed of any human being, is but a statement of fact from a man who
believes in the psychological value of facts. There is also, perhaps, a desire
of punctilious fairness. Unidentified with anyone in this narrative where the
aspects of honour and shame are remote from the ideas of the Western world, and
taking my stand on the ground of common humanity, it is for that very reason
that I feel a strange reluctance to state baldly here what every reader has
most likely already discovered himself. Such reluctance may appear absurd if
it were not for the thought that because of the imperfection of language there
is always something ungracious (and even disgraceful) in the exhibition of
naked truth. But the time has come when Councillor of State Mikulin can no
longer be ignored. His simple question "Where to?" on which we left Mr.
Razumov in St. Petersburg, throws a light on the general meaning of this
individual case.
"Where to?" was the answer in the form of a gentle question to what we may call
Mr. Razumov's declaration of independence. The question was not menacing in
the least and, indeed, had the ring of innocent inquiry. Had it been taken in
a merely topographical sense, the only answer to it would have appeared
sufficiently appalling to Mr Razumov. Where to? Back to his rooms, where the
Revolution had sought him out to put to a sudden test his dormant instincts,
his half-conscious thoughts and almost wholly unconscious ambitions, by the
touch as of some furious and dogmatic religion, with its call to frantic
sacrifices, its tender resignations, its dreams and hopes uplifting the soul by
the side of the most sombre moods of despair. And Mr. Razumov had let go the
door-handle and had come back to the middle of the room, asking Councillor
Mikulin angrily, "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 of Russian
natures that, however strongly engaged in the drama of action, they are still
turning their ear to the murmur of abstract ideas. This conversation (and
others later on) need not be recorded. Suffice it to say that it brought Mr.
Razumov as we know him to the test of another faith. There was nothing
official in its expression, and Mr. Razumov was led to defend his attitude of
detachment. But Councillor Mikulin would have none of his arguments. "For a
man like you," were his last weighty words in the discussion, "such a position
is impossible. Don't forget that I have seen that interesting piece of paper.
I understand your liberalism. I have an intellect of that kind myself.
Reform for me is mainly a question of method. But the principle of revolt is
a physical intoxication, a sort of hysteria which must be kept away from the
masses. You agree to this without reserve, don't you? Because, you see,
Kirylo Sidorovitch, abstention, reserve, in certain situations, come very near
to political crime. The ancient Greeks understood that very well."
Mr. Razumov, listening with a faint smile, asked Councillor Mikulin point-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 you
watched."
Razumov, suspecting a lie, affected yet the greatest liberty of mind during the
short remainder of that interview. The older man expressed himself throughout
in familiar terms, and with a sort of shrewd simplicity. Razumov concluded
that to get to the bottom of that mind was an impossible feat. A great
disquiet made his heart beat quicker. The high official, issuing from behind
the desk, was actually offering to shake hands with him.
"Good-bye, Mr Razumov. An understanding between intelligent men is always a
satisfactory occurrence. Is it not? And, of course, these rebel gentlemen
have not the monopoly of intelligence."
"I presume that I shall not be wanted any more?" Razumov brought out that
question while his hand was still being grasped. Councillor Mikulin released
it slowly.
"That, Mr. Razumov," he said with great earnestness, "is as it may be. God
alone knows the future. But you may rest assured that I never thought of
having you watched. You are a young man of great independence. Yes. You are
going away free as air, but you shall end by coming 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 functionary insisted
in a low, severe tone of conviction. "You shall be coming back to 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 a long 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 times of
monstrous chimeras and evil dreams and criminal follies. We shall certainly
meet once more. It may be some little time, though, before we do. Till then
may Heaven send you fruitful reflections!" Once in the street, Razumov started
off rapidly, without caring for the direction. At first he thought of nothing;
but in a little while the consciousness of his position presented itself to him
as something so ugly, dangerous, and absurd, the difficulty of ever freeing
himself from the toils of that complication so insoluble, that the idea of
going back and, as he termed it to himself, confessing to Councillor Mikulin
flashed through his mind.
Go back! What for? Confess! To what? "I have been speaking to him with the
greatest openness," he said to himself with perfect truth. "What else could I
tell him? That I have undertaken to carry a message to that brute Ziemianitch?
Establish a false complicity and destroy what chance of safety I have won for
nothing--what folly!"
Yet he could not defend himself from fancying that Councillor Mikulin was,
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 to run
out of his limbs; and in the movement of the busy streets, isolated as if in a
desert, he remained suddenly motionless for a minute or so before 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 all at once
removed him to a great distance from the perplexing actualities, from his very
room, even. He never lost consciousness; he only seemed to himself to be
existing languidly somewhere very far away from everything that had ever
happened to him. He came out of this state slowly, with an effect, that is to
say, of extreme slowness, though the actual number of days was not very great.
And when he had got back into the middle of things 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 changed conditions in a spirit of severity. He walked to and
fro to the University, ascended stairs, paced the passages, listened to
lectures, took notes, crossed courtyards in angry aloofness, his teeth set hard
till his jaws ached.
He was perfectly aware of madcap Kostia gazing like a young retriever from a
distance, of the famished student with the red drooping nose, keeping
scrupulously away as desired; of twenty others, perhaps, he knew well enough to
speak to. And they all had an air of curiosity and concern as if they expected
something to happen. "This can't last much longer," thought Razumov more than
once. On certain days he was afraid that anyone addressing him suddenly in a
certain way would make him scream 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 for hours holding some book he had got from the library in his
hand; or he would pick up the little penknife and sit there scraping his nails
endlessly and feeling furious all the time--simply furious. "This is
impossible," he would mutter suddenly to the empty room.
Fact to be noted: this room might conceivably have become physically repugnant
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 lodgings better than any other shelter
he, who had never known a home, had ever hired before. He liked his lodgings
so well that often, on that very account, he found a certain difficulty in
making up his mind to go out. It resembled a physical seduction such as, for
instance, makes a man reluctant 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 he felt himself
at once closely involved in the moral consequences of his act. It was there
that the dark prestige of the Haldin mystery fell on him, 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. He had an uneasy recollection of having savagely told one
or two innocent, nice enough fellows to go to the devil. Once a married
professor he used to call upon formerly addressed him in passing: "How is it we
never see you at our Wednesdays now, Kirylo Sidorovitch?" Razumov was
conscious of meeting this advance with odious, muttering boorishness. The
professor was obviously too astonished to be offended. All this was bad. And
all this was Haldin, always Haldin--nothing but Haldin--everywhere Haldin: a
moral spectre infinitely more effective than any visible apparition of the
dead. It was only the room through which that man had blundered on his way
from crime to death that his spectre did not seem to be able to haunt. 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 had the upper hand, in a composed
sense of his own superiority. A vanquished phantom--nothing more. Often in
the evening, his repaired watch faintly ticking on the table by the side of the
lighted lamp, Razumov would look up from his writing and stare at the bed with
an expectant, dispassionate attention. Nothing was to be seen there. He never
really supposed that anything ever could be seen there. After a while he would
shrug his shoulders slightly and bend again over his work. For he had gone to
work and, at first, with some success. His unwillingness to leave that place
where he was safe from Haldin grew so strong that at last he ceased to go out
at all. From early morning till far into the night 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 open no longer. Then, one afternoon, quite
casually, he happened to glance at his watch. He laid down his pen slowly.
"At this very hour," was his thought, "the fellow stole unseen into this room
while I was out. And there he sat quiet as a mouse--perhaps in this 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 returned and found him standing
against the stove," he observed to himself. When it grew dark he lit his lamp.
Later on he interrupted his tramping once more, only to wave away angrily the
girl who attempted to enter the room with tea and something to eat on a tray.
And presently he noted the watch pointing at the hour of his own going forth
into the falling snow on that terrible errand.
"Complicity," he muttered faintly, and resumed his pacing, keeping his eye 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 chosen instrument
of Providence. This is a manner of speaking, but there may be truth in every
manner of speaking. What if that absurd saying were true in its essence?"
He meditated for a while, then sat down, his legs stretched out, with stony
eyes, and with his arms hanging down on each side of the chair like a man
totally abandoned by Providence--desolate.
He noted the time of Haldin's departure and continued to sit still for another
half-hour; then muttering, "And now to work," drew up to the table, seized the
pen and instantly dropped it under the influence of a profoundly disquieting
reflection: "There's three weeks gone by and no word from Mikulin."
What did it mean! Was he forgotten? Possibly. Then why not remain
forgotten--creep in somewhere? Hide. But where? How? With whom? In what
hole? And was it to be for ever, or what?
But a retreat was big with shadowy dangers. The eye of the social revolution
was on him, and Razumov for a moment felt an unnamed and despairing dread,
mingled with an odious sense of humiliation. Was it possible that he no longer
belonged to himself? This was damnable. But why not simply keep on as before?
Study. Advance. Work hard as if nothing had happened (and first of all win
the Silver Medal), acquire distinction, become a great reforming servant of the
greatest of States. Servant, too, of the mightiest homogeneous mass of mankind
with a capability for logical, guided development in a brotherly solidarity of
force and aim such as the world had never dreamt of. . . the Russian nation!
Calm, resolved, steady in his great purpose, he was stretching his hand towards
the pen when he happened to glance towards the bed. He rushed at it, enraged,
with a mental scream: "it's you, crazy fanatic, who stands in the way!" He
flung the pillow on the floor violently, tore the blankets aside. . . .
Nothing there. And, turning away, he caught for an instant in the air, like a
vivid detail in a dissolving view of two heads, the eyes of General T--- and of
Privy-Councillor Mikulin side by side fixed upon him, quite different in
character, but with the same unflinching and weary and yet purposeful
expression. . . servants of the nation!
Razumov tottered to the washstand very alarmed about himself, drank some water
and bathed his forehead. "This will pass and leave no trace," he thought
confidently. "I am all right." But as to supposing that he had been forgotten
it was perfect nonsense. He was a marked man on that side. And that was
nothing. It was what that miserable phantom stood for which had to be got out
of the way. . . . "If one only could go and spit it all out at some of
them--and take the consequences."
He imagined himself accosting the red-nosed student and suddenly shaking his
fist in his face. "From that one, though," he reflected," there's nothing to
be got, because he has no mind of his own. He's living in a red democratic
trance. Ah! you want to smash your way into universal happiness, my boy. I
will give you universal happiness, you silly, hypnotized ghoul, you! And what
about my own happiness, eh? Haven't I got 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 was crossing the room
slowly, intending to sit down on the sofa and try to compose his thoughts. But
before he had got so far everything abandoned him--hope, courage, belief in
himself trust in men. His heart had, as it were, suddenly emptied itself. It
was no use struggling on. Rest, work, solitude, and the frankness of
intercourse with his kind were alike forbidden to him. Everything was gone.
His existence was a great cold blank, something like the enormous plain of the
whole of Russia levelled with snow and fading gradually on all sides into
shadows and mists.
He sat down, with swimming head, closed his eyes, and remained like that,
sitting bolt upright on the sofa and perfectly awake for the rest of the night;
till the girl bustling into the outer room with the samovar thumped with her
fist on the door, calling out," Kirylo Sidorovitch, please! It is time for you
to get up!"
Then, pale like a corpse obeying the dread summons of judgement, Razumov opened
his eyes and got up.
Nobody will be surprised to hear, I suppose, that when the summons came he went
to see Councillor Mikulin. It came that very morning, while, looking white and
shaky, like an invalid just out of bed, he was trying to shave himself. The
envelope was addressed in the little attorney's handwriting. That envelope
contained another, superscribed to Razumov, in Prince K---'s hand, with the
request "Please forward under cover at once" in a corner. The note inside was
an autograph of Councillor Mikulin. The writer stated candidly that nothing
had arisen which needed clearing up, but nevertheless appointed a meeting with
Mr. Razumov at a certain 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, lit a match, and
burned the two envelopes and the enclosure carefully. Afterwards he waited,
sitting perfectly idle and not even looking at anything in particular till the
appointed hour drew near--and then went out.
Whether, looking at the unofficial character of the summons, he might have
refrained from attending to it is hard to say. Probably not. At any rate, he
went; but, what's more, he went with a certain eagerness, which may appear
incredible till it is remembered that Councillor Mikulin was the only person on
earth with whom Razumov could talk, taking the Haldin adventure for granted.
And Haldin, when once taken for granted, was no longer a haunting,
falsehood-breeding spectre. Whatever troubling power he exercised in all the
other places of the earth, Razumov knew very well that at this oculist's
address he would be merely the hanged murderer of M. de P--- and nothing more.
For the dead can live only with the exact intensity and quality of the life
imparted to them by the living. So Mr. Razumov, certain of relief, went to
meet Councillor Mikulin with he eagerness of a pursued person welcoming any
sort of shelter.
This much said, there is no need to tell anything more of that first interview
and of the several others. To the morality of a Western reader an account of
these meetings would wear perhaps the sinister character of old legendary tales
where the Enemy of Mankind is represented holding subtly mendacious dialogues
with some tempted soul. It is not my part to protest. Let me but remark that
the Evil One, with his single passion of 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 what greater latitude, then, should we appraise the exact
shade of mere mortal man, with his many passions and his miserable ingenuity in
error, always dazzled by the base glitter of mixed motives, everlastingly
betrayed by a short-sighted wisdom.
Councillor Mikulin was one of those powerful officials who, in a position not
obscure, not occult, but simply inconspicuous, exercise a great influence over
the methods rather than over the conduct of affairs. A devotion to Church and
Throne is not in itself a criminal sentiment; to prefer the will of one to the
will of many does not argue the possession of a black heart or prove congenital
idiocy. Councillor Mikulin was not only a clever but also a faithful official.
Privately he was a bachelor with a love of comfort, living alone in an
apartment of five rooms luxuriously furnished; and was known by his intimates
to be an enlightened patron of the art of female dancing. Later on the larger
world first heard of him in the very hour of his downfall, during one of those
State trials which astonish and puzzle the average plain man who reads the
newspapers, by a glimpse of unsuspected intrigues. And in the stir of vaguely
seen monstrosities, in that momentary, mysterious disturbance of muddy waters,
Councillor Mikulin went under, dignified, with only a calm, emphatic protest of
his innocence--nothing more. No disclosures damaging to a harassed autocracy,
complete fidelity to the secrets of the miserable _arcana imperii_ deposited in
his patriotic breast, a display of bureaucratic stoicism in a Russian
official's ineradicable, almost sublime contempt for truth; stoicism of silence
understood only by the very few of the initiated, and not without a certain
cynical grandeur of self-sacrifice on the part of a sybarite. For the terribly
heavy sentence turned Councillor Mikulin civilly into a corpse, 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. It devours its
friends and servants as well. The downfall of His Excellency Gregory
Gregorievitch Mikulin (which did not occur till some years later) completes all
that is known of the man. But at the time of M. de P---'s murder (or
execution) Councillor Mikulin, under the modest style of Head of Department at
the General Secretariat, exercised a wide influence as the confidant and
right-hand man of his former schoolfellow and lifelong friend, General T---.
One can imagine them talking over the case of Mr. Razumov, with the full sense
of their unbounded power over all the lives in Russia, with cursory disdain,
like two Olympians glancing at a worm. The relationship with Prince K--- was
enough to save Razumov from some carelessly arbitrary proceeding, and it is
also very probable that after the interview at the Secretariat he would have
been left alone. Councillor Mikulin would not have forgotten him (he forgot no
one who ever fell under his observation), but would have simply dropped him for
ever. Councillor Mikulin was a good-natured man and wished no harm to anyone.
Besides (with his own reforming tendencies) he was 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 of life
was possible to him, Councillor Mikulin's discreet abilities were rewarded by a
very responsible post--nothing less than the direction of the general police
supervision over Europe. And it was then, and then only, when taking in hand
the perfecting of the service which watches the revolutionist activities
abroad, that he thought again of Mr. Razumov. He saw great possibilities of
special usefulness in that uncommon young man on whom he had a hold already,
with his peculiar temperament, his unsettled mind and shaken conscience, a
struggling in the toils of a false position. . . . It was as if the
revolutionists themselves had put into his hand that tool so much finer than
the common base instruments, so perfectly fitted, if only vested with
sufficient credit, to penetrate into places inaccessible to common informers.
Providential! Providential! And Prince K---, taken into the secret, was
ready enough to adopt that mystical view too. "It will be necessary, though,
to make a career for him afterwards," he had stipulated anxiously. "Oh!
absolutely. We shall make that our affair," Mikulin had agreed. Prince K---'s
mysticism was of an artless kind; but Councillor Mikulin was astute enough for
two.
Things and men have always a certain sense, a certain side by which they must
be got hold of if one wants to obtain a solid grasp and a perfect command. The
power of Councillor Mikulin consisted in the ability to seize upon that sense,
that side in the men he used. It did not matter to him what it was--vanity,
despair, love, hate, greed, intelligent pride or stupid conceit, it was all one
to him as long as the man could be made to serve. The obscure, unrelated young
student Razumov, in the moment of great moral loneliness, was allowed to feel
that he was an object of interest to a small group of people of high position.
Prince K--- was persuaded to intervene personally, and on a certain occasion
gave way to a manly emotion which, all unexpected as it was, quite upset Mr.
Razumov. The sudden embrace of that man, agitated by his loyalty to a 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 contemptuous tenderness
softened the young man's grim view of his position as he reflected upon that
agitated interview with Prince K---. This simpleminded, worldly ex-Guardsman
and senator whose soft grey official whiskers had brushed against his cheek,
his aristocratic and convinced father, was he a whit less estimable or more
absurd than that famine-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 susceptibilities were ever hurt. It was to be a dangerous
mission to Geneva for obtaining, at a critical moment, absolutely reliable
information from a very inaccessible quarter of the inner revolutionary circle.
There were indications that a very serious plot was being matured. . . . The
repose indispensable to a great country was at stake. . . . A great scheme of
orderly reforms would be endangered. . . . The highest personages in the land
were patriotically uneasy, and so on. In short, Councillor Mikulin knew what
to say. This skill is to be inferred clearly from the mental and psychological
self-confession, self-analysis of Mr. Razumov's written journal--the pitiful
resource of a young man who had near him no trusted intimacy, no natural
affection to turn to.
How all this preliminary work was concealed from observation need not be
recorded. The expedient of the oculist gives a sufficient instance.
Councillor Mikulin was resourceful, and the task not very difficult. Any
fellow-student, even the red-nosed one, was perfectly welcome to see Mr.
Razumov entering a private house to consult an oculist. Ultimate success
depended solely on the revolutionary self-delusion which credited Razumov with
a mysterious complicity in the Haldin affair. To be compromised in it was
credit enough-and it was their own doing. It was precisely _that_ which
stamped Mr. Razumov as a providential man, wide as poles apart from the usual
type of agent for "European supervision."
And it was _that_ which the Secretariat set itself the task to foster by a
course of calculated and false indiscretions.
It came at last to this, that one evening Mr. Razumov was unexpectedly called
upon by one of the "thinking" students whom formerly, before the Haldin affair,
he used to meet at various private gatherings; a big fellow 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 coming to stab me?" he
thought sardonically, and, assuming a green shade over his 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 coughed a
little. "Eye better?"
"Nearly well now."
" Good. I won't stop a minute; but you see I, that is, we--anyway, I have
undertaken the duty to warn you, Kirylo Sidorovitch, that you are living in
false security maybe."
Razumov sat still with his head leaning on his hand, which nearly concealed the
unshaded eye.
"I have that idea, too."
"That's all right, then. Everything seems quiet now, but those people are
preparing some move of general repression. That's of course. But it isn't
that I came to tell you." He hitched his chair closer, dropped his voice.
"You will be arrested before long--we fear."
An obscure scribe in the Secretariat had overheard a few words of a certain
conversation, and had caught a glimpse of a certain report. This intelligence
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 you alone
for a while, but. . . ! Indeed, you had better try to leave the country,
Kirylo Sidorovitch, while there's yet time."
Razumov jumped up and began to thank him for the advice with mocking
effusiveness, so that the other, colouring up, took himself off with the notion
that this mysterious Razumov was not a person to be warned or advised by
inferior mortals.
Councillor Mikulin, informed the next day of the incident, expressed his
satisfaction. "H'm. Ha! Exactly what was wanted to. . ." and glanced down
his beard.
"I conclude," said Razumov," that the moment has come for me to start on my
mission."
"The psychological Moment," Councillor Mikulin insisted softly--very
gravely--as if awed.
All the arrangements to give verisimilitude to the appearance of a difficult
escape were made. Councillor Mikulin did not expect to see Mr. Razumov again
before his departure. These meetings were a risk, and there 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 that unreserved
heartiness a Russian can convey in his manner. "There is nothing obscure
between us. And I will tell you what! I consider myself fortunate 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 of matters already
discussed, certain points of inquiry, the line of conduct agreed on, a few
hints as to personalities, and so on. It was the only compromising document in
the case, but, as Councillor Mikulin observed, it could be easily destroyed.
Mr. Razumov had better not see any one now--till on the other side of the
frontier, when, of course, it will be just that. . . . See and hear and. . . ."
He glanced down his beard; but when Razumov declared his intention to see one
person at least before leaving St. Petersburg, Councillor Mikulin failed to
conceal a sudden uneasiness. The young man's studious, solitary, and austere
existence was well known to him. It was the greatest guarantee of fitness. He
became deprecatory. Had his dear Kirylo Sidorovitch considered whether, in
view of such a momentous enterprise, it wasn't really advisable to sacrifice
every sentiment. . . .
Razumov interrupted the remonstrance scornfully. It was not a young woman, 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 Razumov curtly,
in a desire to affirm his independence. "I must be trusted in what 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 festive student known
as madcap Kostia. Feather-headed, loquacious, excitable, one could make
certain of his utter and complete indiscretion. But that riotous youth, when
reminded by Razumov of his offers of service some time ago, passed from his
usual elation into boundless dismay.
"Oh, Kirylo Sidorovitch, my dearest friend--my saviour--what shall I do? 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 usurers I 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 a fistful 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 he would see all the
intellectuals in Russia hanged in a row rather than part 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. I know the
drawer where he keeps his plunder, and I can buy a chisel on my way home. He
will be terribly upset, but, you know, the dear old duffer really loves me.
He'll have to get over it--and I, too. Kirylo, my dear soul, if you can only
wait for a few hours-till this evening--I shall steal 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 the greatest
animation. "It's the new future now."
But when he entered Razumov's room late in the evening it was with an
unaccustomed 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 slowly in the circle of
lamplight a small brown-paper parcel tied with a piece of string.
"As I've said--all I could lay my hands on. The old boy'll think the end of
the world has come." Razumov nodded from the couch, and contemplated the
hare-brained fellow's gravity with a feeling of malicious pleasure.
"I've made my little sacrifice," sighed mad Kostia. "And I've to thank you,
Kirylo Sidorovitch, for the opportunity."
"It has cost you something?"
"Yes, it has. You see, the dear old duffer really loves me. He'll be hurt."
"And you believe all they tell you of the new future and the sacred will of the
people?"
"Implicitly. I would give my life. . . . Only, you see, I am like a pig at a
trough. I am no good. It's my nature."
Razumov, lost in thought, had forgotten his existence till the youth's voice,
entreating him to fly without loss of time, roused him unpleasantly.
"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 refuse me
that now. For God's sake, Kirylo, my soul, the police may be here any moment,
and when they get you they'll immure you somewhere for ages--till your hair
turns grey. I have down there the best trotter of dad's stables and a light
sledge. We shall do thirty miles before the moon sets, and find some roadside
station. . . ."
Razumov looked up amazed. The journey was decided--unavoidable. He had fixed
the next day for his departure on the mission. And now he discovered suddenly
that he had not believed in it. He had gone about listening, speaking,
thinking, planning his simulated flight, with the growing conviction that all
this was preposterous. As if anybody ever did such things! It was like a game
of make-believe. And now he was amazed! 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, "I shall never go." He rose without a word, and the
anxious Kostia thrust his cap on him, helped him into his cloak, or else he
would have left the room bareheaded as he stood. He was walking out silently
when a sharp cry arrested him.
"Kirylo!"
"What?" He turned reluctantly in the doorway. Upright, with a stiffly extended
arm, Kostia, his face set and white, was pointing an eloquent forefinger at the
brown little packet lying forgotten in the circle of bright light on the table.
Razumov hesitated, came back for it under the severe eyes of his companion, at
whom he tried to smile. But the boyish, mad youth was frowning. "It's a
dream," thought Razumov, putting the little parcel into his pocket and
descending the stairs; "nobody does such things." The other held him under the
arm, whispering of dangers ahead, and of what he meant to do in certain
contingencies. "Preposterous," murmured Razumov, as he was being tucked up in
the sledge. He gave himself up to watching the development of the dream with
extreme attention. It continued on foreseen lines, inexorably logical--the
long drive, the wait at the small station sitting by a stove. They did not
exchange half a dozen words altogether. Kostia, gloomy himself, did not care
to break the silence. At parting they embraced twice--it had to be done; and
then Kostia vanished out of the dream.
When dawn broke, Razumov, very still in a hot, stuffy railway-car full of
bedding and of sleeping people in all its dimly lighted length, rose quietly,
lowered the glass a few inches, and flung out on the great plain of snow a
small brown-paper parcel. Then he sat down again muffled up and motionless.
"For the people," he thought, staring out of the window. The great white
desert of frozen, hard earth glided past his eyes 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 with an angry,
compelled attention. Zurich, Geneva--still a dream, minutely followed, wearing
one into harsh laughter, to fury, to death--with the fear of awakening at the
end.
