The Egeria of the “Russian Mazzini” produced, at first view, a strong
effect by the death-like immobility of an obviously painted face. The
eyes appeared extraordinarily brilliant. The figure, in a close-fitting
dress, admirably made, but by no means fresh, had an elegant stiffness.
The rasping voice inviting him to sit down; the rigidity of the upright
attitude with one arm extended along the back of the sofa, the white
gleam of the big eyeballs setting off the black, fathomless stare of the
enlarged pupils, impressed Razumov more than anything he had seen since
his hasty and secret departure from St. Petersburg. A witch in Parisian
clothes, he thought. A portent! He actually hesitated in his advance,
and did not even comprehend, at first, what the rasping voice was
saying.
“Sit down. Draw your chair nearer me. There--”
He sat down. At close quarters the rouged cheekbones, the wrinkles, the
fine lines on each side of the vivid lips, astounded him. He was being
received graciously, with a smile which made him think of a grinning
skull.
“We have been hearing about you for some time.”
He did not know what to say, and murmured some disconnected words. The
grinning skull effect vanished.
“And do you know that the general complaint is that you have shown
yourself very reserved everywhere?”
Razumov remained silent for a time, thinking of his answer.
“I, don’t you see, am a man of action,” he said huskily, glancing
upwards.
Peter Ivanovitch stood in portentous expectant silence by the side of
his chair. A slight feeling of nausea came over Razumov. What could be
the relations of these two people to each other? She like a galvanized
corpse out of some Hoffman’s Tale--he the preacher of feminist gospel
for all the world, and a super-revolutionist besides! This ancient,
painted mummy with unfathomable eyes, and this burly, bull-necked,
deferential...what was it? Witchcraft, fascination.... “It’s for
her money,” he thought. “She has millions!”
The walls, the floor of the room were bare like a barn. The few pieces
of furniture had been discovered in the garrets and dragged down into
service without having been properly dusted, even. It was the refuse the
banker’s widow had left behind her. The windows without curtains had an
indigent, sleepless look. In two of them the dirty yellowy-white blinds
had been pulled down. All this spoke, not of poverty, but of sordid
penuriousness.