“This young man, General, is perfectly fit to apprehend the bearing of
your memorable words.”
The General’s whole expression changed from dull resentment to perfect
urbanity.
“I would ask now, Mr. Razumov,” he said, “to return to his home. Note
that I don’t ask Mr. Razumov whether he has justified his absence to his
guest. No doubt he did this sufficiently. But I don’t ask. Mr. Razumov
inspires confidence. It is a great gift. I only suggest that a more
prolonged absence might awaken the criminal’s suspicions and induce him
perhaps to change his plans.”
He rose and with a scrupulous courtesy escorted his visitors to the
ante-room encumbered with flower-pots.
Razumov parted with the Prince at the corner of a street. In the
carriage he had listened to speeches where natural sentiment struggled
with caution. Evidently the Prince was afraid of encouraging any hopes
of future intercourse. But there was a touch of tenderness in the voice
uttering in the dark the guarded general phrases of goodwill. And the
Prince too said--
“I have perfect confidence in you, Mr. Razumov.”
“They all, it seems, have confidence in me,” thought Razumov dully. He
had an indulgent contempt for the man sitting shoulder to shoulder with
him in the confined space. Probably he was afraid of scenes with his
wife. She was said to be proud and violent.
It seemed to him bizarre that secrecy should play such a large part in
the comfort and safety of lives. But he wanted to put the Prince’s
mind at ease; and with a proper amount of emphasis he said that, being
conscious of some small abilities and confident in his power of work, he
trusted his future to his own exertions. He expressed his gratitude for
the helping hand. Such dangerous situations did not occur twice in the
course of one life--he added.
“And you have met this one with a firmness of mind and correctness
of feeling which give me a high idea of your worth,” the Prince said
solemnly. “You have now only to persevere--to persevere.”
On getting out on the pavement Razumov saw an ungloved hand extended to
him through the lowered window of the brougham. It detained his own in
its grasp for a moment, while the light of a street lamp fell upon the
Prince’s long face and old-fashioned grey whiskers.
“I hope you are perfectly reassured now as to the consequences...”
“After what your Excellency has condescended to do for me, I can only
rely on my conscience.”
“_Adieu_,” said the whiskered head with feeling.
Razumov bowed. The brougham glided away with a slight swish in the
snow--he was alone on the edge of the pavement.
He said to himself that there was nothing to think about, and began
walking towards his home.
He walked quietly. It was a common experience to walk thus home to bed
after an evening spent somewhere with his fellows or in the cheaper
seats of a theatre. After he had gone a little way the familiarity of
things got hold of him. Nothing was changed. There was the familiar
corner; and when he turned it he saw the familiar dim light of the
provision shop kept by a German woman. There were loaves of stale bread,
bunches of onions and strings of sausages behind the small window-panes.
They were closing it. The sickly lame fellow whom he knew so well by
sight staggered out into the snow embracing a large shutter.
Nothing would change. There was the familiar gateway yawning black with
feeble glimmers marking the arches of the different staircases.
The sense of life’s continuity depended on trifling bodily impressions.
The trivialities of daily existence were an armour for the soul. And
this thought reinforced the inward quietness of Razumov as he began to
climb the stairs familiar to his feet in the dark, with his hand on the
familiar clammy banister. The exceptional could not prevail against the
material contacts which make one day resemble another. To-morrow would
be like yesterday.
It was only on the stage that the unusual was outwardly acknowledged.
“I suppose,” thought Razumov, “that if I had made up my mind to blow out
my brains on the landing I would be going up these stairs as quietly
as I am doing it now. What’s a man to do? What must be must be.
Extraordinary things do happen. But when they have happened they are
done with. Thus, too, when the mind is made up. That question is done
with. And the daily concerns, the familiarities of our thought swallow
it up--and the life goes on as before with its mysterious and secret
sides quite out of sight, as they should be. Life is a public thing.”
Razumov unlocked his door and took the key out; entered very quietly and
bolted the door behind him carefully.
He thought, “He hears me,” and after bolting the door he stood still
holding his breath. There was not a sound. He crossed the bare outer
room, stepping deliberately in the darkness. Entering the other, he felt
all over his table for the matchbox. The silence, but for the groping of
his hand, was profound. Could the fellow be sleeping so soundly?
He struck a light and looked at the bed. Haldin was lying on his back as
before, only both his hands were under his head. His eyes were open. He
stared at the ceiling.
Razumov held the match up. He saw the clear-cut features, the firm
chin, the white forehead and the topknot of fair hair against the white
pillow. There he was, lying flat on his back. Razumov thought suddenly,
“I have walked over his chest.”
He continued to stare till the match burnt itself out; then struck
another and lit the lamp in silence without looking towards the bed any
more. He had turned his back on it and was hanging his coat on a peg
when he heard Haldin sigh profoundly, then ask in a tired voice--
“Well! And what have you arranged?”
The emotion was so great that Razumov was glad to put his hands against
the wall. A diabolical impulse to say, “I have given you up to the
police,” frightened him exceedingly. But he did not say that. He said,
without turning round, in a muffled voice--
“It’s done.”
Again he heard Haldin sigh. He walked to the table, sat down with the
lamp before him, and only then looked towards the bed.
In the distant corner of the large room far away from the lamp, which
was small and provided with a very thick china shade, Haldin appeared
like a dark and elongated shape--rigid with the immobility of death.
This body seemed to have less substance than its own phantom walked over
by Razumov in the street white with snow. It was more alarming in its
shadowy, persistent reality than the distinct but vanishing illusion.
Haldin was heard again.
“You must have had a walk--such a walk,...” he murmured
deprecatingly. “This weather....”