“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 inquiry6. Had it been taken in a merely topographical sense, the only answer to it would have appeared sufficiently8 appalling9 to Mr Razumov. Where to? Back to his rooms, where the Revolution had sought him out to put to a sudden test his dormant10 instincts, his half-conscious thoughts and almost wholly unconscious ambitions, by the touch as of some furious and dogmatic religion, with its call to frantic11 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 peculiarity12 of Russian natures that, however strongly engaged in the drama of action, they are still turning their ear to the murmur14 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 intoxication15, 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 cynical16 inquiry.
“No, Kirylo Sidorovitch,” he answered gravely. “I don’t mean to have you watched.”
Razumov, suspecting a lie, affected17 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 simplicity18. Razumov concluded that to get to the bottom of that mind was an impossible feat19. A great disquiet20 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 appalled22 murmur of protest. “What for?” he added feebly.
“Yes! You yourself, Kirylo Sidorovitch,” the high police functionary23 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 monstrous24 chimeras25 and evil dreams and criminal follies26. 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 toils27 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 brute28 Ziemianitch? Establish a false complicity and destroy what chance of safety I have won for nothing — what folly29!”
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, isolated30 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 landlady31, the rustic32 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, ascended33 stairs, paced the passages, listened to lectures, took notes, crossed courtyards in angry aloofness34, his teeth set hard till his jaws35 ached.
He was perfectly36 aware of madcap Kostia gazing like a young retriever from a distance, of the famished37 student with the red drooping38 nose, keeping scrupulously39 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 filthy40 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 noted41: this room might conceivably have become physically42 repugnant to him, emotionally intolerable, morally uninhabitable. But no. Nothing of the sort (and he had himself dreaded44 it at first), nothing of the sort happened. On the contrary, he liked his lodgings45 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 conversational46, commonplace, unavoidable intercourse47 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 savagely48 told one or two innocent, nice enough fellows to go to the devil. Once a married professor he used to call upon formerly50 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 odious51, muttering boorishness52. 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 infinitely53 more effective than any visible apparition54 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 vanquished55 phantom56 — 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 shrug57 his shoulders slightly and bend again over his work. For he had gone to work and, at first, with some success. His unwillingness58 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 casually59, 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 steadily60, glancing at the watch now and then. “ This is the time when I returned and found him standing21 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 forth62 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 Providence63. 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 meditated64 for a while, then sat down, his legs stretched out, with stony65 eyes, and with his arms hanging down on each side of the chair like a man totally abandoned by Providence — desolate66.
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 disquieting67 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 dread43, mingled68 with an odious sense of humiliation69. 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 mightiest70 homogeneous mass of mankind with a capability71 for logical, guided development in a brotherly solidarity72 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, enraged73, with a mental scream: “it’s you, crazy fanatic74, 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 fixed75 upon him, quite different in character, but with the same unflinching and weary and yet purposeful expression . . . servants of the nation!
Razumov tottered76 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 miserable78 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 accosting79 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, solitude80, 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 bustling81 into the outer room with the samovar thumped82 with her fist on the door, calling out,” Kirylo Sidorovitch, please! It is time for you to get up!”
Then, pale like a corpse83 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 invalid85 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 candidly86 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 oculist87.
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 intensity88 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 sinister89 character of old legendary90 tales where the Enemy of Mankind is represented holding subtly mendacious91 dialogues with some tempted61 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 motive92, is yet, on a larger, modern view, allowed to be not quite so black as he used to be painted. With what greater latitude93, then, should we appraise94 the exact shade of mere7 mortal man, with his many passions and his miserable ingenuity95 in error, always dazzled by the base glitter of mixed motives96, everlastingly97 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 idiocy98. Councillor Mikulin was not only a clever but also a faithful official. Privately99 he was a bachelor with a love of comfort, living alone in an apartment of five rooms luxuriously100 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 intrigues101. And in the stir of vaguely102 seen monstrosities, in that momentary103, mysterious disturbance104 of muddy waters, Councillor Mikulin went under, dignified105, with only a calm, emphatic106 protest of his innocence107 — nothing more. No disclosures damaging to a harassed108 autocracy109, complete fidelity110 to the secrets of the miserable arcana imperii deposited in his patriotic111 breast, a display of bureaucratic112 stoicism in a Russian official’s ineradicable, almost sublime113 contempt for truth; stoicism of silence understood only by the very few of the initiated114, and not without a certain cynical grandeur115 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 savage49 autocracy, no more than the divine democracy, does not limit its diet exclusively to the bodies of its enemies. It devours116 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 cursory117 disdain118, like two Olympians glancing at a worm. The relationship with Prince K—— was enough to save Razumov from some carelessly arbitrary proceeding120, 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 favourably121 impressed by that young student, the son of Prince K— — and apparently122 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 discreet123 abilities were rewarded by a very responsible post — nothing less than the direction of the general police supervision124 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 uncommon125 young man on whom he had a hold already, with his peculiar13 temperament126, 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 penetrate127 into places inaccessible128 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 stipulated129 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 astute130 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 conceit131, 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 manly132 emotion which, all unexpected as it was, quite upset Mr. Razumov. The sudden embrace of that man, agitated133 by his loyalty134 to a throne and by suppressed paternal135 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 softened136 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 whit84 less estimable or more absurd than that famine-stricken, fanatical revolutionist, the red-nosed student?
And there was some pressure, too, besides the persuasiveness137. 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 repose138 indispensable to a great country was at stake. . . . A great scheme of orderly reforms would be endangered. . . . The highest personages in the land were patriotically139 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 intimacy140, no natural affection to turn to.
How all this preliminary work was concealed141 from observation need not be recorded. The expedient143 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 solely144 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 precisely145 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 gatherings146; 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 sardonically147, and, assuming a green shade over his left eye, said in a severe tone, “Come in.”
The other was embarrassed; hoped he was not intruding148.
“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 repression149. That’s of course. But it isn’t that I came to tell you.” He hitched150 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 effusiveness151, 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 awed152.
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 heartiness153 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 abbreviated154 note of matters already discussed, certain points of inquiry, the line of conduct agreed on, a few hints as to personalities155, 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 conceal142 a sudden uneasiness. The young man’s studious, solitary156, and austere157 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 momentous158 enterprise, it wasn’t really advisable to sacrifice every sentiment . . . .
Razumov interrupted the remonstrance159 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 curtly160, 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 judgment161. . .”
And with another handshake they parted.
The fool of whom Mr. Razumov had thought was the rich and festive162 student known as madcap Kostia. Feather-headed, loquacious163, excitable, one could make certain of his utter and complete indiscretion. But that riotous164 youth, when reminded by Razumov of his offers of service some time ago, passed from his usual elation119 into boundless165 dismay.
“Oh, Kirylo Sidorovitch, my dearest friend — my saviour166 — 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 wretch167 that I am.”
He wrung168 his hands in despair. Impossible to confide77 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 plunder169, and I can buy a chisel170 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 stonily171.
“To the devil with the ten commandments!” cried the other, with the greatest animation172. “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, shuddered173 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 contemplated174 the hare-brained fellow’s gravity with a feeling of malicious175 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, entreating176 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 immure177 you somewhere for ages — till your hair turns grey. I have down there the best trotter of dad’s stables and a light sledge178. We shall do thirty miles before the moon sets, and find some roadside station . . . .”
Razumov looked up amazed. The journey was decided179 — 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 preposterous180. 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 doorway181. Upright, with a stiffly extended arm, Kostia, his face set and white, was pointing an eloquent182 forefinger183 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 descending184 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 contingencies185. “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, stuffy186 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 muffled187 up and motionless. “For the people,” he thought, staring out of the window. The great white desert of frozen, hard earth glided188 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 awakening189 at the end.
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1
retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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punctilious
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| adj.谨慎的，谨小慎微的 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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17
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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disquiet
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| n.担心，焦虑 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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23
functionary
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| n.官员；公职人员 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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25
chimeras
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| n.（由几种动物的各部分构成的）假想的怪兽( chimera的名词复数 )；不可能实现的想法；幻想；妄想 | |
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26
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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27
toils
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| 网 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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30
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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32
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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33
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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aloofness
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| 超然态度 | |
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jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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famished
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| adj.饥饿的 | |
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38
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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39
scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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40
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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41
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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42
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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43
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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44
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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45
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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46
conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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47
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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48
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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49
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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50
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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51
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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52
boorishness
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53
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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54
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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55
vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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56
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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57
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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58
unwillingness
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| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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59
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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60
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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61
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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62
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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63
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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64
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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65
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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66
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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67
disquieting
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| adj.令人不安的，令人不平静的v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
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68
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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69
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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70
mightiest
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| adj.趾高气扬( mighty的最高级 )；巨大的；强有力的；浩瀚的 | |
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71
capability
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| n.能力；才能；(pl)可发展的能力或特性等 | |
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72
solidarity
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| n.团结；休戚相关 | |
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73
enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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74
fanatic
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| n.狂热者，入迷者；adj.狂热入迷的 | |
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75
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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76
tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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77
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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78
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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79
accosting
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的现在分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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80
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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81
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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82
thumped
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| v.重击， （指心脏）急速跳动( thump的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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84
whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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85
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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86
candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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87
oculist
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| n.眼科医生 | |
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88
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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89
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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91
mendacious
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| adj.不真的，撒谎的 | |
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92
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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93
latitude
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| n.纬度，行动或言论的自由(范围)，(pl.)地区 | |
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94
appraise
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| v.估价，评价，鉴定 | |
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95
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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96
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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97
everlastingly
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| 永久地，持久地 | |
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98
idiocy
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| n.愚蠢 | |
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99
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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100
luxuriously
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| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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101
intrigues
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| n.密谋策划( intrigue的名词复数 )；神秘气氛；引人入胜的复杂情节v.搞阴谋诡计( intrigue的第三人称单数 )；激起…的好奇心 | |
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102
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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103
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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104
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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105
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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106
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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107
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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108
harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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109
autocracy
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| n.独裁政治，独裁政府 | |
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110
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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111
patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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112
bureaucratic
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| adj.官僚的，繁文缛节的 | |
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113
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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114
initiated
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| n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始，创始，启蒙，介绍加入 | |
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115
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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116
devours
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| 吞没( devour的第三人称单数 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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117
cursory
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| adj.粗略的；草率的；匆促的 | |
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118
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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119
elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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120
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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121
favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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122
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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123
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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124
supervision
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| n.监督，管理 | |
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125
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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126
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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127
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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128
inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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129
stipulated
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| vt.& vi.规定；约定adj.[法]合同规定的 | |
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130
astute
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| adj.机敏的，精明的 | |
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131
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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132
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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133
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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134
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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135
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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136
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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137
persuasiveness
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| 说服力 | |
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138
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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139
patriotically
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| 爱国地；忧国地 | |
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140
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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141
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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142
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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143
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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144
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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146
gatherings
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| 聚集( gathering的名词复数 )； 收集； 采集； 搜集 | |
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sardonically
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| adv.讽刺地，冷嘲地 | |
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148
intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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repression
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| n.镇压，抑制，抑压 | |
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150
hitched
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| （免费）搭乘他人之车( hitch的过去式和过去分词 )； 搭便车； 攀上； 跃上 | |
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151
effusiveness
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| n.吐露，唠叨 | |
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152
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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heartiness
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| 诚实，热心 | |
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abbreviated
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| adj. 简短的，省略的 动词abbreviate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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158
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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159
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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160
curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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161
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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163
loquacious
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| adj.多嘴的，饶舌的 | |
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164
riotous
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| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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165
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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166
saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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167
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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168
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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plunder
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| vt.劫掠财物，掠夺；n.劫掠物，赃物；劫掠 | |
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170
chisel
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| n.凿子；v.用凿子刻，雕，凿 | |
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171
stonily
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| 石头地，冷酷地 | |
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172
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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173
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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174
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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175
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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176
entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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177
immure
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| v.囚禁，幽禁 | |
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178
sledge
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| n.雪橇，大锤；v.用雪橇搬运，坐雪橇往 | |
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179
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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180
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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181
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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182
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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183
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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184
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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185
contingencies
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| n.偶然发生的事故，意外事故( contingency的名词复数 )；以备万一 | |
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186
stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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187
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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188
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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189
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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