He had resumed his impressions in those pages, some of the conversations. He even went so far as to write: “By the by, I have discovered the personality of that terrible N.N. A horrible, paunchy brute1. If I hear anything of his future movements I shall send a warning.”
The futility2 of all this overcame him like a curse. Even then he could not believe in the reality of his mission. He looked round despairingly, as if for some way to redeem3 his existence from that unconquerable feeling. He crushed angrily in his hand the pages of the notebook. “This must be posted,” he thought.
He gained the bridge and returned to the north shore, where he remembered having seen in one of the narrower streets a little obscure shop stocked with cheap wood carvings4, its walls lined with extremely dirty cardboard-bound volumes of a small circulating library. They sold stationery5 there, too. A morose6, shabby old man dozed7 behind the counter. A thin woman in black, with a sickly face, produced the envelope he had asked for without even looking at him. Razumov thought that these people were safe to deal with because they no longer cared for anything in the world. He addressed the envelope on the counter with the German name of a certain person living in Vienna. But Razumov knew that this, his first communication for Councillor Mikulin, would find its way to the Embassy there, be copied in cypher by somebody trustworthy, and sent on to its destination, all safe, along with the diplomatic correspondence. That was the arrangement contrived9 to cover up the track of the information from all unfaithful eyes, from all indiscretions, from all mishaps10 and treacheries. It was to make him safe — absolutely safe.
He wandered out of the wretched shop and made for the post office. It was then that I saw him for the second time that day. He was crossing the Rue11 Mont Blanc with every appearance of an aimless stroller. He did not recognize me, but I made him out at some distance. He was very good-looking, I thought, this remarkable12 friend of Miss Haldin’s brother. I watched him go up to the letter-box and then retrace13 his steps. Again he passed me very close, but I am certain he did not see me that time, either. He carried his head well up, but he had the expression of a somnambulist struggling with the very dream which drives him forth14 to wander in dangerous places. My thoughts reverted15 to Natalia Haldin, to her mother. He was all that was left to them of their son and brother.
The westerner in me was discomposed. There was something shocking in the expression of that face. Had I been myself a conspirator16, a Russian political refugee, I could have perhaps been able to draw some practical conclusion from this chance glimpse. As it was, it only discomposed me strongly, even to the extent of awakening17 an indefinite apprehension18 in regard to Natalia Haldin. All this is rather inexplicable19, but such was the origin of the purpose I formed there and then to call on these ladies in the evening, after my solitary20 dinner. It was true that I had met Miss Haldin only a few hours before, but Mrs. Haldin herself I had not seen for some considerable time. The truth is, I had shirked calling of late.
Poor Mrs. Haldin! I confess she frightened me a little. She was one of those natures, rare enough, luckily, in which one cannot help being interested, because they provoke both terror and pity. One dreads21 their contact for oneself, and still more for those one cares for, so clear it is that they are born to suffer and to make others suffer, too. It is strange to think that, I won’t say liberty, but the mere22 liberalism of outlook which for us is a matter of words, of ambitions, of votes (and if of feeling at all, then of the sort of feeling which leaves our deepest affections untouched), may be for other beings very much like ourselves and living under the same sky, a heavy trial of fortitude23, a matter of tears and anguish24 and blood. Mrs. Haldin had felt the pangs25 of her own generation. There was that enthusiast26 brother of hers — the officer they shot under Nicholas. A faintly ironic27 resignation is no armour28 for a vulnerable heart. Mrs. Haldin, struck at through her children, was bound to suffer afresh from the past, and to feel the anguish of the future. She was of those who do not know how to heal themselves, of those who are too much aware of their heart, who, neither cowardly nor selfish, look passionately29 at its wounds — and count the cost.
Such thoughts as these seasoned my modest, lonely bachelor’s meal. If anybody wishes to remark that this was a roundabout way of thinking of Natalia Haldin, I can only retort that she was well worth some concern. She had all her life before her. Let it be admitted, then, that I was thinking of Natalia Haldin’s life in terms of her mother’s character, a manner of thinking about a girl permissible30 for an old man, not too old yet to have become a stranger to pity. There was almost all her youth before her; a youth robbed arbitrarily of its natural lightness and joy, overshadowed by an un-European despotism; a terribly sombre youth given over to the hazards of a furious strife31 between equally ferocious32 antagonisms33.
I lingered over my thoughts more than I should have done. One felt so helpless, and even worse — so unrelated, in a way. At the last moment I hesitated as to going there at all. What was the good?
The evening was already advanced when, turning into the Boulevard des Philosophes, I saw the light in the window at the corner. The blind was down, but I could imagine behind it Mrs. Haldin seated in the chair, in her usual attitude, looking out for some one, which had lately acquired the poignant34 quality of mad expectation.
I thought that I was sufficiently35 authorized36 by the light to knock at the door. The ladies had not retired37 as yet. I only hoped they would not have any visitors of their own nationality. A broken-down, retired Russian official was to be found there sometimes in the evening. He was infinitely38 forlorn and wearisome by his mere dismal39 presence. I think these ladies tolerated his frequent visits because of an ancient friendship with Mr. Haldin, the father, or something of that sort. I made up my mind that if I found him prosing away there in his feeble voice I should remain but a very few minutes.
The door surprised me by swinging open before I could ring the bell. I was confronted by Miss Haldin, in hat and jacket, obviously on the point of going out. At that hour! For the doctor, perhaps?
Her exclamation40 of welcome reassured41 me. It sounded as if I had been the very man she wanted to see. My curiosity was awakened42. She drew me in, and the faithful Anna, the elderly German maid, closed the door, but did not go away afterwards. She remained near it as if in readiness to let me out presently. It appeared that Miss Haldin had been on the point of going out to find me.
She spoke43 in a hurried manner very unusual with her. She would have gone straight and rung at Mrs. Ziegler’s door, late as it was, for Mrs. Ziegler’s habits . . . .
Mrs. Ziegler, the widow of a distinguished44 professor who was an intimate friend of mine, lets me have three rooms out of her very large and fine apartment, which she didn’t give up after her husband’s death; but I have my own entrance opening on the same landing. It was an arrangement of at least ten years’ standing45. I said that I was very glad that I had the idea to . . . .
Miss Haldin made no motion to take off her outdoor things. I observed her heightened colour, something pronouncedly resolute46 in her tone. Did I know where Mr. Razumov lived?
Where Mr. Razumov lived? Mr. Razumov? At this hour — so urgently? I threw my arms up in sign of utter ignorance. I had not the slightest idea where he lived. If I could have foreseen her question only three hours ago, I might have ventured to ask him on the pavement before the new post office building, and possibly he would have told me, but very possibly, too, he would have dismissed me rudely to mind my own business. And possibly, I thought, remembering that extraordinary hallucined, anguished47, and absent expression, he might have fallen down in a fit from the shock of being spoken to. I said nothing of all this to Miss Haldin, not even mentioning that I had a glimpse of the young man so recently. The impression had been so extremely unpleasant that I would have been glad to forget it myself.
“I don’t see where I could make inquiries,” I murmured helplessly. I would have been glad to be of use in any way, and would have set off to fetch any man, young or old, for I had the greatest confidence in her common sense. “What made you think of coming to me for that information?” I asked.
“It wasn’t exactly for that,” she said, in a low voice. She had the air of some one confronted by an unpleasant task.
“Am I to understand that you must communicate with Mr. Razumov this evening?”
Natalia Haldin moved her head affirmatively; then, after a glance at the door of the drawing-room, said in French —
“C’est maman,” and remained perplexed49 for a moment. Always serious, not a girl to be put out by any imaginary difficulties, my curiosity was suspended on her lips, which remained closed for a moment. What was Mr. Razumov’s connexion with this mention of her mother? Mrs. Haldin had not been informed of her son’s friend’s arrival in Geneva.
“May I hope to see your mother this evening?” I inquired.
Miss Haldin extended her hand as if to bar the way.
“She is in a terrible state of agitation50. Oh, you would not he able to detect. . . . It’s inward, but I who know mother, I am appalled51. I haven’t the courage to face it any longer. It’s all my fault; I suppose I cannot play a part; I’ve never before hidden anything from mother. There has never been an occasion for anything of that sort between us. But you know yourself the reason why I refrained from telling her at once of Mr. Razumov’s arrival here. You understand, don’t you? Owing to her unhappy state. And — there — I am no actress. My own feelings being strongly engaged, I somehow. . . . I don’t know. She noticed something in my manner. She thought I was concealing52 something from her. She noticed my longer absences, and, in fact, as I have been meeting Mr. Razumov daily, I used to stay away longer than usual when I went out. Goodness knows what suspicions arose in her mind. You know that she has not been herself ever since. . . . So this evening she — who has been so awfully54 silent: for weeks-began to talk all at once. She said that she did not want to reproach me; that I had my character as she had her own; that she did not want to pry55 into my affairs or even into my thoughts; for her part, she had never had anything to conceal53 from her children . . . cruel things to listen to. And all this in her quiet voice, with that poor, wasted face as calm as a stone. It was unbearable56.”
Miss Haldin talked in an undertone and more rapidly than I had ever heard her speak before. That in itself was disturbing. The ante-room being strongly lighted, I could see under the veil the heightened colour of her face. She stood erect57, her left hand was resting lightly on a small table. The other hung by her side without stirring. Now and then she caught her breath slightly.
“It was too startling. Just fancy! She thought that I was making preparations to leave her without saying anything. I knelt by the side of her chair and entreated58 her to think of what she was saying! She put her hand on my head, but she persists in her delusion59 all the same. She had always thought that she was worthy8 of her children’s confidence, but apparently60 it was not so. Her son could not trust her love nor yet her understanding — and now I was planning to abandon her in the same cruel and unjust manner, and so on, and so on. Nothing I could say. . . . It is morbid61 obstinacy62. . . . She said that she felt there was something, some change in me. . . . If my convictions were calling me away, why this secrecy63, as though she had been a coward or a weakling not safe to trust? ‘As if my heart could play traitor64 to my children,’ she said. . . . It was hardly to be borne. And she was smoothing my head all the time. . . . It was perfectly65 useless to protest. She is ill. Her very soul is . . . .”
I did not venture to break the silence which fell between us. I looked into her eyes, glistening66 through the veil.
“I! Changed!” she exclaimed in the same low tone. “My convictions calling me away! It was cruel to hear this, because my trouble is that I am weak and cannot see what I ought to do. You know that. And to end it all I did a selfish thing. To remove her suspicions of myself I told her of Mr. Razumov. It was selfish of me. You know we were completely right in agreeing to keep the knowledge away from her. Perfectly right. Directly I told her of our poor Victor’s friend being here I saw how right we have been. She ought to have been prepared; but in my distress67 I just blurted68 it out. Mother got terribly excited at once. How long has he been here? What did he know, and why did he not come to see us at once, this friend of her Victor? What did that mean? Was she not to be trusted even with such memories as there were left of her son? . . . Just think how I felt seeing her, white like a sheet, perfectly motionless, with her thin hands gripping the arms of the chair. I told her it was all my fault.”
I could imagine the motionless dumb figure of the mother in her chair, there, behind the door, near which the daughter was talking to me. The silence in there seemed to call aloud for vengeance69 against an historical fact and the modern instances of its working. That view flashed through my mind, but I could not doubt that Miss Haldin had had an atrocious time of it. I quite understood when she said that she could not face the night upon the impression of that scene. Mrs. Haldin had given way to most awful imaginings, to most fantastic and cruel suspicions. All this had to be lulled70 at all costs and without loss of time. It was no shock to me to ]earn that Miss Haldin had said to her, “I will go and bring him here at once.” There was nothing absurd in that cry, no exaggeration of sentiment. I was not even doubtful in my “Very well, but how?”
It was perfectly right that she should think of me, but what could I do in my ignorance of Mr. Razumov’s quarters.
“And to think he may be living near by, within a stone’s-throw, perhaps!” she exclaimed.
I doubted it; but I would have gone off cheerfully to fetch him from the other end of Geneva. I suppose she was certain of my readiness, since her first thought was to come to me. But the service she meant to ask of me really was to accompany her to the Chateau71 Borel.
I had an unpleasant mental vision of the dark road, of the sombre grounds, and the desolately72 suspicious aspect of that home of necromancy73 and intrigue74 and feminist75 adoration76. I objected that Madame de S—— most likely would know nothing of what we wanted to find out. Neither did I think it likely that the young man would be found there. I remembered my glimpse of his face, and somehow gained the conviction that a man who looked worse than if he had seen the dead would want to shut himself up somewhere where he could be alone. I felt a strange certitude that Mr. Razumov was going home when I saw him.
“It is really of Peter Ivanovitch that I was thinking,” said Miss Haldin quietly.
Ah! He, of course, would know. I looked at my watch. It was twenty minutes past nine only. . . . Still.
“I would try his hotel, then,” I advised. “He has rooms at the Cosmopolitan77, somewhere on the top floor.”
I did not offer to go by myself, simply from mistrust of the reception I should meet with. But I suggested the faithful Anna, with a note asking for the information.
Anna was still waiting by the door at the other end of the room, and we two discussed the matter in whispers. Miss Haldin thought she must go herself. Anna was timid and slow. Time would be lost in bringing back the answer, and from that point of view it was getting late, for it was by no means certain that Mr. Razumov lived near by.
“If I go myself,” Miss Haldin argued, “I can go straight to him from the hotel. And in any case I should have to go out, because I must explain to Mr. Razumov personally — prepare him in a way. You have no idea of mother’s state of mind.”
Her colour came and went. She even thought that both for her mother’s sake and for her own it was better that they should not be together for a little time. Anna, whom her mother liked, would be at hand.
“She could take her sewing into the room,” Miss Haldin continued, leading the way to the door. Then, addressing in German the maid who opened it before us, “You may tell my mother that this gentleman called and is gone with me to find Mr. Razumov. She must not be uneasy if I am away for some length of time.”
We passed out quickly into the street, and she took deep breaths of the cool night air. “I did not even ask you,” she murmured.
“I should think not,” I said, with a laugh. The manner of my reception by the great feminist could not be considered now. That he would be annoyed to see me, and probably treat me to some solemn insolence78, I had no doubt, but I supposed that he would not absolutely dare to throw me out. And that was all I cared for. “Won’t you take my arm?” I asked.
She did so in silence, and neither of us said anything worth recording79 till I let her go first into the great hall of the hotel. It was brilliantly lighted, and with a good many people lounging about.
“I could very well go up there without you,” I suggested.
“I don’t like to be left waiting in this place,” she said in a low voice.
“I will come too.”
I led her straight to the lift then. At the top floor the attendant directed us to the right: “End of the corridor.”
The walls were white, the carpet red, electric lights blazed in profusion80, and the emptiness, the silence, the closed doors all alike and numbered, made me think of the perfect order of some severely81 luxurious82 model penitentiary83 on the solitary confinement84 principle. Up there under the roof of that enormous pile for housing travellers no sound of any kind reached us, the thick crimson85 felt muffled86 our footsteps completely. We hastened on, not looking at each other till we found ourselves before the very last door of that long passage. Then our eyes met, and we stood thus for a moment lending ear to a faint murmur48 of voices inside.
“I suppose this is it,” I whispered unnecessarily. I saw Miss Haldin’s lips move without a sound, and after my sharp knock the murmur of voices inside ceased. A profound stillness lasted for a few seconds, and then the door was brusquely opened by a short, black-eyed woman in a red blouse, with a great lot of nearly white hair, done up negligently87 in an untidy and unpicturesque manner. Her thin, jetty eyebrows88 were drawn89 together. I learned afterwards with interest that she was the famous — or the notorious — Sophia Antonovna, but I was struck then by the quaint90 Mephistophelian character of her inquiring glance, because it was so curiously91 evil-less, so — I may say — un-devilish. It got softened92 still more as she looked up at Miss Haldin, who stated, in her rich, even voice, her wish to see Peter Ivanovitch for a moment.
“I am Miss Haldin,” she added.
At this, with her brow completely smoothed out now, but without a word in answer, the woman in the red blouse walked away to a sofa and sat down, leaving the door wide open.
And from the sofa, her hands lying on her lap, she watched us enter, with her black, glittering eyes.
Miss Haldin advanced into the middle of the room; I, faithful to my part of mere attendant, remained by the door after closing it behind me. The room, quite a large one, but with a low ceiling, was scantily93 furnished, and an electric bulb with a porcelain94 shade pulled low down over a big table (with a very large map spread on it) left its distant parts in a dim, artificial twilight95. Peter Ivanovitch was not to be seen, neither was Mr. Razumov present. But, on the sofa, near Sophia Antonovna, a bony-faced man with a goatee beard leaned forward with his hands on his knees, staring hard with a kindly96 expression. In a remote corner a broad, pale face and a bulky shape could be made out, uncouth97, and as if insecure on the low seat on which it rested. The only person known to me was little Julius Laspara, who seemed to have been poring over the map, his feet twined tightly round the chair-legs. He got down briskly and bowed to Miss Haldin, looking absurdly like a hooknosed boy with a beautiful false pepper-and-salt beard. He advanced, offering his seat, which Miss Haldin declined. She had only come in for a moment to say a few words to Peter Ivanovitch.
His high-pitched voice became painfully audible in the room.
“Strangely enough, I was thinking of you this very afternoon, Natalia Victorovna. I met Mr. Razumov. I asked him to write me an article on anything he liked. You could translate it into English — with such a teacher.”
He nodded complimentarily in my direction. At the name of Razumov an indescribable sound, a sort of feeble squeak98, as of some angry small animal, was heard in the corner occupied by the man who seemed much too large for the chair on which he sat. I did not hear what Miss Haldin said. Laspara spoke again.
“It’s time to do something, Natalia Victorovna. But I suppose you have your own ideas. Why not write something yourself? Suppose you came to see us soon? We could talk it over. Any advice . . . .
Again I did not catch Miss Haldin’s words. It was Laspara’s voice once more.
“Peter Ivanovitch? He’s retired for a moment into the other room. We are all waiting for him.” The great man, entering at that moment, looked bigger, taller, quite imposing99 in a long dressing-gown of some dark stuff. It descended100 in straight lines down to his feet. He suggested a monk101 or a prophet, a robust102 figure of same desert-dweller — something Asiatic; and the dark glasses in conjunction with this costume made him more mysterious than ever in the subdued103 light.
Little Laspara went back to his chair to look at the map, the only brilliantly lit object in the room. Even from my distant position by the door I could make out, by the shape of the blue part representing the water, that it was a map of the Baltic provinces. Peter Ivanovitch exclaimed slightly, advancing towards Miss Haldin, checked himself on perceiving me, very vaguely104 no doubt; and peered with his dark, bespectacled stare. He must have recognized me by my grey hair, because, with a marked shrug105 of his broad shoulders, he turned to Miss Haldin in benevolent106 indulgence. He seized her hand in his thick cushioned palm, and put his other big paw over it like a lid.
While those two standing in the middle of the floor were exchanging a few inaudible phrases no one else moved in the room: Laspara, with his back to us, kneeling on the chair, his elbows propped107 on the big-scale map, the shadowy enormity in the corner, the frankly108 staring man with the goatee on the sofa, the woman in the red blouse by his side — not one of them stirred. I suppose that really they had no time, for Miss Haldin withdrew her hand immediately from Peter Ivanovitch and before I was ready for her was moving to the door. A disregarded Westerner, I threw it open hurriedly and followed her out, my last glance leaving them all motionless in their varied109 poses: Peter Ivanovitch alone standing up, with his dark glasses like an enormous blind teacher, and behind him the vivid patch of light on the coloured map, pored over by the diminutive110 Laspara.
Later on, much later on, at the time of the newspaper rumours111 (they were vague and soon died out) of an abortive112 military conspiracy113 in Russia, I remembered the glimpse I had of that motionless group with its central figure. No details ever came out, but it was known that the revolutionary parties abroad had given their assistance, had sent emissaries in advance, that even money was found to dispatch a steamer with a cargo114 of arms and conspirators115 to invade the Baltic provinces. And while my eyes scanned the imperfect disclosures (in which the world was not much interested) I thought that the old, settled Europe had been given in my person attending that Russian girl something like a glimpse behind the scenes. A short, strange glimpse on the top floor of a great hotel of all places in the world: the great man himself; the motionless great bulk in the corner of the slayer116 of spies and gendarmes117; Yakovlitch, the veteran of ancient terrorist campaigns; the woman, with her hair as white as mine and the lively black eyes, all in a mysterious half-light, with the strongly lighted map of Russia on the table. The woman I had the opportunity to see again. As we were waiting for the lift she came hurrying along the corridor, with her eyes fastened on Miss Haldin’s face, and drew her aside as if for a confidential118 communication. It was not long. A few words only.
Going down in the lift, Natalia Haldin did not break the silence. It was only when out of the hotel and as we moved along the quay119 in the fresh darkness spangled by the quay lights, reflected in the black water of the little port on our left hand, and with lofty piles of hotels on our right, that she spoke.
“That was Sophia Antonovna — you know the woman? . . . .”
“Yes, I know — the famous . . . .”
“The same. It appears that after we went out Peter Ivanovitch told them why I had come. That was the reason she ran out after us. She named herself to me, and then she said, ‘You are the sister of a brave man who shall be remembered. You may see better times.’ I told her I hoped to see the time when all this would be forgotten, even if the name of my brother were to be forgotten too. Something moved me to say that, but you understand?”
“Yes,” I said. “You think of the era of concord120 and justice.”
“Yes. There is too much hate and revenge in that work. It must be done. It is a sacrifice — and so let it be all the greater. Destruction is the work of anger. Let the tyrants121 and the slayers be forgotten together, and only the reconstructors be remembered.’’
“And did Sophia Antonovna agree with you?” I asked sceptically.
“She did not say anything except, ‘It is good for you to believe in love.’ I should think she understood me. Then she asked me if I hoped to see Mr. Razumov presently. I said I trusted I could manage to bring him to see my mother this evening, as my mother had learned of his being here and was morbidly122 impatient to learn if he could tell us something of Victor. He was the only friend of my brother we knew of, and a great intimate. She said, ‘Oh! Your brother — yes. Please tell Mr. Razumov that I have made public the story which came to me from St. Petersburg. It concerns your brother’s arrest,’ she added. ‘He was betrayed by a man of the people who has since hanged himself. Mr. Razumov will explain it all to you. I gave him the full information this afternoon. And please tell Mr. Razumov that Sophia Antonovna sends him her greetings. I am going away early in the morning — far away.’”
And Miss Haldin added, after a moment of silence-” I was so moved by what I heard so unexpectedly that I simply could not speak to you before. . . . A man of the people! Oh, our poor people!”
She walked slowly, as if tired out suddenly. Her head drooped123; from the windows of a building with terraces and balconies came the banal124 sound of hotel music; before the low mean portals of the Casino two red posters blazed under the electric lamps, with a cheap provincial125 effect. — and the emptiness of the quays126, the desert aspect of the streets, had an air of hypocritical respectability and of inexpressible dreariness127.
I had taken for granted she had obtained the address, and let myself be guided by her. On the Mont Blanc bridge, where a few dark figures seemed lost in the wide and long perspective defined by the lights, she said —
“It isn’t very far from our house. I somehow thought it couldn’t be. The address is Rue de Carouge. I think it must be one of those big new houses for artisans.”
She took my arm confidingly128, familiarly, and accelerated her pace. There was something primitive129 in our proceedings130. We did not think of the resources of civilization. A late tramcar overtook us; a row of fiacres stood by the railing of the gardens. It never entered our heads to make use of these conveyances131. She was too hurried, perhaps, and as to myself — well, she had taken my arm confidingly. As we were ascending132 the easy incline of the Corraterie, all the shops shuttered and no light in any of the windows (as if all the mercenary population had fled at the end of the day), she said tentatively —
“I could run in for a moment to have a look at mother. It would not be much out of the way.”
I dissuaded133 her. If Mrs. Haldin really expected to see Razumov that night it would have been unwise to show herself without him. The sooner we got hold of the young man and brought him along to calm her mother’s agitation the better. She assented134 to my reasoning, and we crossed diagonally the Place de Theatre, bluish grey with its floor of slabs135 of stone, under the electric light, and the lonely equestrian136 statue all black in the middle. In the Rue de Carouge we were in the poorer quarters and approaching the outskirts137 of the town. Vacant building plots alternated with high, new houses. At the corner of a side street the crude light of a whitewashed138 shop fell into the night, fan-like, through a wide doorway139. One could see from a distance the inner wall with its scantily furnished shelves, and the deal counter painted brown. That was the house. Approaching it along the dark stretch of a fence of tarred planks140, we saw the narrow pallid141 face of the cut angle, five single windows high, without a gleam in them, and crowned by the heavy shadow of a jutting142 roof slope.
“We must inquire in the shop,” Miss Haldin directed me.
A sallow, thinly whiskered man, wearing a dingy143 white collar and a frayed144 tie, laid down a newspaper, and, leaning familiarly on both elbows far over the bare counter, answered that the person I was inquiring for was indeed his locataire on the third floor, but that for the moment he was out.
“For the moment,” I repeated, after a glance at Miss Haldin. “Does this mean that you expect him back at once?”
He was very gentle, with ingratiating eyes and soft lips. He smiled faintly as though he knew all about everything. Mr. Razumov, after being absent all day, had returned early in the evening. He was very surprised about half an hour or a little more since to see him come down again. Mr. Razumov left his key, and in the course of some words which passed between them had remarked that he was going out because he needed air.
>From behind the bare counter he went on smiling at us, his head held between his hands. Air. Air. But whether that meant a long or a short absence it was difficult to say. The night was very close, certainly.
After a pause, his ingratiating eyes turned to the door, he added —
“The storm shall drive him in.”
“There’s going to be a storm?” I asked.
“Why, yes!”
As if to confirm his words we heard a very distant, deep rumbling145 noise.
Consulting Miss Haldin by a glance, I saw her so reluctant to give up her quest that I asked the shopkeeper, in case Mr. Razumov came home within half an hour, to beg him to remain downstairs in the shop. We would look in again presently.
For all answer he moved his head imperceptibly. The approval of Miss Haldin was expressed by her silence. We walked slowly down the street, away from the town; the low garden walls of the modest villas146 doomed147 to demolition148 were overhung by the boughs149 of trees and masses of foliage150, lighted from below by gas lamps. The violent and monotonous151 noise of the icy waters of the Arve falling over a low dam swept towards us with a chilly152 draught153 of air across a great open space, where a double line of lamp-lights outlined a street as yet without houses. But on the other shore, overhung by the awful blackness of the thunder-cloud, a solitary dim light seemed to watch us with a weary stare. When we had strolled as far as the bridge, I said —
“We had better get back . . . .”
In the shop the sickly man was studying his smudgy newspaper, now spread out largely on the counter. He just raised his head when I looked in and shook it negatively, pursing up his lips. I rejoined Miss Haldin outside at once, and we moved off at a brisk pace. She remarked that she would send Anna with a note the first thing in the morning. I respected her taciturnity, silence being perhaps the best way to show my concern.
The semi-rural street we followed on our return changed gradually to the usual town thoroughfare, broad and deserted154. We did not meet four people altogether, and the way seemed interminable, because my companion’s natural anxiety had communicated itself sympathetically to me. At last we turned into the Boulevard des Philosophes, more wide, more empty, more dead — the very desolation of slumbering155 respectability. At the sight of the two lighted windows, very conspicuous156 from afar, I had the mental vision of Mrs. Haldin in her armchair keeping a dreadful, tormenting157 vigil under the evil spell of an arbitrary rule: a victim of tyranny and revolution, a sight at once cruel and absurd.
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1
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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futility
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| n.无用 | |
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3
redeem
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| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
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carvings
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| n.雕刻( carving的名词复数 )；雕刻术；雕刻品；雕刻物 | |
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stationery
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| n.文具；(配套的)信笺信封 | |
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morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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mishaps
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| n.轻微的事故，小的意外( mishap的名词复数 ) | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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retrace
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| v.折回；追溯，探源 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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conspirator
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| n.阴谋者，谋叛者 | |
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awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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20
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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21
dreads
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| n.恐惧，畏惧( dread的名词复数 )；令人恐惧的事物v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的第三人称单数 ) | |
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22
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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ironic
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| adj.讽刺的，有讽刺意味的，出乎意料的 | |
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armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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30
permissible
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| adj.可允许的，许可的 | |
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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32
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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antagonisms
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| 对抗，敌对( antagonism的名词复数 ) | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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authorized
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| a.委任的，许可的 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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39
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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40
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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41
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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42
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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43
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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44
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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45
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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46
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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47
anguished
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| adj.极其痛苦的v.使极度痛苦(anguish的过去式) | |
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48
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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49
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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50
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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51
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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52
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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53
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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54
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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55
pry
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| vi.窥(刺)探，打听；vt.撬动(开，起) | |
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unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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57
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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58
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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61
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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62
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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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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glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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71
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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desolately
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| 荒凉地，寂寞地 | |
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necromancy
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| n.巫术；通灵术 | |
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intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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75
feminist
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| adj.主张男女平等的，女权主义的 | |
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76
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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cosmopolitan
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| adj.世界性的，全世界的，四海为家的，全球的 | |
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insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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81
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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82
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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83
penitentiary
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| n.感化院；监狱 | |
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84
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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85
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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86
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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negligently
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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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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scantily
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| adv.缺乏地；不充足地；吝啬地；狭窄地 | |
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porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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95
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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98
squeak
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| n.吱吱声，逃脱；v.（发出）吱吱叫，侥幸通过；（俚）告密 | |
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99
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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104
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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112
abortive
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| adj.不成功的，发育不全的 | |
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conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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cargo
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| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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conspirators
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| n.共谋者，阴谋家( conspirator的名词复数 ) | |
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slayer
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| n. 杀人者，凶手 | |
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gendarmes
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| n.宪兵，警官( gendarme的名词复数 ) | |
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118
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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119
quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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concord
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| n.和谐；协调 | |
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121
tyrants
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| 专制统治者( tyrant的名词复数 )； 暴君似的人； （古希腊的）僭主； 严酷的事物 | |
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122
morbidly
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| adv.病态地 | |
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drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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banal
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| adj.陈腐的，平庸的 | |
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125
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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126
quays
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| 码头( quay的名词复数 ) | |
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127
dreariness
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| 沉寂，可怕，凄凉 | |
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128
confidingly
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| adv.信任地 | |
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129
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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130
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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131
conveyances
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| n.传送( conveyance的名词复数 )；运送；表达；运输工具 | |
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ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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133
dissuaded
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| 劝（某人）勿做某事，劝阻( dissuade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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135
slabs
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| n.厚板，平板，厚片( slab的名词复数 )；厚胶片 | |
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136
equestrian
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| adj.骑马的；n.马术 | |
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137
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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138
whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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139
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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140
planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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141
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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142
jutting
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| v.（使）突出( jut的现在分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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143
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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144
frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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145
rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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146
villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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147
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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demolition
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| n.破坏,毁坏,毁坏之遗迹 | |
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149
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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150
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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151
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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152
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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153
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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154
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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155
slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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157
tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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