Razumov, thus left to himself, took the direction of the gate. But on
this day of many conversations, he discovered that very probably he
could not leave the grounds without having to hold another one.
Stepping in view from beyond the lodge appeared the expected visitors
of Peter Ivanovitch: a small party composed of two men and a woman. They
noticed him too, immediately, and stopped short as if to consult. But in
a moment the woman, moving aside, motioned with her arm to the two men,
who, leaving the drive at once, struck across the large neglected
lawn, or rather grass-plot, and made directly for the house. The woman
remained on the path waiting for Razumov’s approach. She had recognized
him. He, too, had recognized her at the first glance. He had been made
known to her at Zurich, where he had broken his journey while on his
way from Dresden. They had been much together for the three days of his
stay.
She was wearing the very same costume in which he had seen her first. A
blouse of crimson silk made her noticeable at a distance. With that
she wore a short brown skirt and a leather belt. Her complexion was
the colour of coffee and milk, but very clear; her eyes black and
glittering, her figure erect. A lot of thick hair, nearly white, was
done up loosely under a dusty Tyrolese hat of dark cloth, which seemed
to have lost some of its trimmings.
The expression of her face was grave, intent; so grave that Razumov,
after approaching her close, felt obliged to smile. She greeted him with
a manly hand-grasp.
“What! Are you going away?” she exclaimed. “How is that, Razumov?”
“I am going away because I haven’t been asked to stay,” Razumov
answered, returning the pressure of her hand with much less force than
she had put into it.
She jerked her head sideways like one who understands. Meantime
Razumov’s eyes had strayed after the two men. They were crossing the
grass-plot obliquely, without haste. The shorter of the two was buttoned
up in a narrow overcoat of some thin grey material, which came nearly
to his heels. His companion, much taller and broader, wore a short,
close-fitting jacket and tight trousers tucked into shabby top-boots.
The woman, who had sent them out of Razumov’s way apparently, spoke in a
businesslike voice.
“I had to come rushing from Zurich on purpose to meet the train and take
these two along here to see Peter Ivanovitch. I’ve just managed it.”
“Ah! indeed,” Razumov said perfunctorily, and very vexed at her staying
behind to talk to him “From Zurich--yes, of course. And these two, they
come from....”