IV

Razumov walked straight home on the wet glistening pavement. A heavy

shower passed over him; distant lightning played faintly against the

fronts of the dumb houses with the shuttered shops all along the Rue

de Carouge; and now and then, after the faint flash, there was a faint,

sleepy rumble; but the main forces of the thunderstorm remained

massed down the Rhone valley as if loath to attack the respectable and

passionless abode of democratic liberty, the serious-minded town of

dreary hotels, tendering the same indifferent, hospitality to tourists

of all nations and to international conspirators of every shade.

The owner of the shop was making ready to close when Razumov entered and

without a word extended his hand for the key of his room. On reaching

it for him, from a shelf, the man was about to pass a small joke as to

taking the air in a thunderstorm, but, after looking at the face of his

lodger, he only observed, just to say something--

“You’ve got very wet.”

“Yes, I am washed clean,” muttered Razumov, who was dripping from head

to foot, and passed through the inner door towards the staircase leading

to his room.

He did not change his clothes, but, after lighting the candle, took off

his watch and chain, laid them on the table, and sat down at once to

write. The book of his compromising record was kept in a locked drawer,

which he pulled out violently, and did not even trouble to push back

afterwards.

In this queer pedantism of a man who had read, thought, lived, pen in

hand, there is the sincerity of the attempt to grapple by the same means

with another profounder knowledge. After some passages which have been

already made use of in the building up of this narrative, or add nothing

new to the psychological side of this disclosure (there is even one more

allusion to the silver medal in this last entry), comes a page and

a half of incoherent writing where his expression is baffled by the

novelty and the mysteriousness of that side of our emotional life to

which his solitary existence had been a stranger. Then only he begins

to address directly the reader he had in his mind, trying to express in

broken sentences, full of wonder and awe, the sovereign (he uses that

very word) power of her person over his imagination, in which lay the

dormant seed of her brother’s words.

“... The most trustful eyes in the world--your brother said of you

when he was as well as a dead man already. And when you stood before me

with your hand extended, I remembered the very sound of his voice, and

I looked into your eyes--and that was enough. I knew that something had

happened, but I did not know then what.... But don’t be deceived,

Natalia Victorovna. I believed that I had in my breast nothing but an

inexhaustible fund of anger and hate for you both. I remembered that he

had looked to you for the perpetuation of his visionary soul. He, this

man who had robbed me of my hard-working, purposeful existence. I, too,

had my guiding idea; and remember that, amongst us, it is more difficult

to lead a life of toil and self-denial than to go out in the street and

kill from conviction. But enough of that. Hate or no hate, I felt at

once that, while shunning the sight of you, I could never succeed in

driving away your image. I would say, addressing that dead man, ‘Is

this the way you are going to haunt me?’ It is only later on that I

understood--only to-day, only a few hours ago. What could I have known

of what was tearing me to pieces and dragging the secret for ever to

my lips? You were appointed to undo the evil by making me betray myself

back into truth and peace. You! And you have done it in the same way,

too, in which he ruined me: by forcing upon me your confidence. Only

what I detested him for, in you ended by appearing noble and exalted.

But, I repeat, be not deceived. I was given up to evil. I exulted in

having induced that silly innocent fool to steal his father’s money. He

was a fool, but not a thief. I made him one. It was necessary. I had

to confirm myself in my contempt and hate for what I betrayed. I have

suffered from as many vipers in my heart as any social democrat of them

all--vanity, ambitions, jealousies, shameful desires, evil passions of

envy and revenge. I had my security stolen from me, years of good work,

my best hopes. Listen--now comes the true confession. The other was

nothing. To save me, your trustful eyes had to entice my thought to the

very edge of the blackest treachery. I could see them constantly looking

at me with the confidence of your pure heart which had not been touched

by evil things. Victor Haldin had stolen the truth of my life from me,

who had nothing else in the world, and he boasted of living on through

you on this earth where I had no place to lay my head on. She will marry

some day, he had said--and your eyes were trustful. And do you know what

I said to myself? I shall steal his sister’s soul from her. When we met

that first morning in the gardens, and you spoke to me confidingly

in the generosity of your spirit, I was thinking, ‘Yes, he himself by

talking of her trustful eyes has delivered her into my hands!’ If you

could have looked then into my heart, you would have cried out aloud

with terror and disgust.

“Perhaps no one will believe the baseness of such an intention to be

possible. It’s certain that, when we parted that morning, I gloated

over it. I brooded upon the best way. The old man you introduced me to

insisted on walking with me. I don’t know who he is. He talked of you,

of your lonely, helpless state, and every word of that friend of yours

was egging me on to the unpardonable sin of stealing a soul. Could he

have been the devil himself in the shape of an old Englishman? Natalia

Victorovna, I was possessed! I returned to look at you every day,

and drink in your presence the poison of my infamous intention. But

I foresaw difficulties. Then Sophia Antonovna, of whom I was not

thinking--I had forgotten her existence--appears suddenly with that

tale from St. Petersburg.... The only thing needed to make me safe--a

trusted revolutionist for ever.

“It was as if Ziemianitch had hanged himself to help me on to further

crime. The strength of falsehood seemed irresistible. These people

stood doomed by the folly and the illusion that was in them--they being

themselves the slaves of lies. Natalia Victorovna, I embraced the might

of falsehood, I exulted in it--I gave myself up to it for a time. Who

could have resisted! You yourself were the prize of it. I sat alone in

my room, planning a life, the very thought of which makes me shudder

now, like a believer who had been tempted to an atrocious sacrilege. But

I brooded ardently over its images. The only thing was that there seemed

to be no air in it. And also I was afraid of your mother. I never knew

mine. I’ve never known any kind of love. There is something in the mere

word.... Of you, I was not afraid--forgive me for telling you this.

No, not of you. You were truth itself. You could not suspect me. As to

your mother, you yourself feared already that her mind had given way

from grief. Who could believe anything against me? Had not Ziemianitch

hanged himself from remorse? I said to myself, ‘Let’s put it to the

test, and be done with it once for all.’ I trembled when I went in;

but your mother hardly listened to what I was saying to her, and, in a

little while, seemed to have forgotten my very existence. I sat looking

at her. There was no longer anything between you and me. You were

defenceless--and soon, very soon, you would be alone.... I thought of

you. Defenceless. For days you have talked with me--opening your heart.

I remembered the shadow of your eyelashes over your grey trustful eyes.

And your pure forehead! It is low like the forehead of statues--calm,

unstained. It was as if your pure brow bore a light which fell on me,

searched my heart and saved me from ignominy, from ultimate undoing.

And it saved you too. Pardon my presumption. But there was that in your

glances which seemed to tell me that you.... Your light! your truth!

I felt that I must tell you that I had ended by loving you. And to tell

you that I must first confess. Confess, go out--and perish.

“Suddenly you stood before me! You alone in all the world to whom I

must confess. You fascinated me--you have freed me from the blindness of

anger and hate--the truth shining in you drew the truth out of me. Now I

have done it; and as I write here, I am in the depths of anguish,

but there is air to breathe at last--air! And, by the by, that old man

sprang up from somewhere as I was speaking to you, and raged at me like

a disappointed devil. I suffer horribly, but I am not in despair. There

is only one more thing to do for me. After that--if they let me--I shall

go away and bury myself in obscure misery. In giving Victor Haldin up,

it was myself, after all, whom I have betrayed most basely. You must

believe what I say now, you can’t refuse to believe this. Most basely.

It is through you that I came to feel this so deeply. After all, it is

they and not I who have the right on their side!--theirs is the

strength of invisible powers. So be it. Only don’t be deceived, Natalia

Victorovna, I am not converted. Have I then the soul of a slave? No! I

am independent--and therefore perdition is my lot.”

On these words, he stopped writing, shut the book, and wrapped it in the

black veil he had carried off. He then ransacked the drawers for

paper and string, made up a parcel which he addressed to Miss Haldin,

Boulevard des Philosophes, and then flung the pen away from him into a

distant corner.

This done, he sat down with the watch before him. He could have gone out

at once, but the hour had not struck yet. The hour would be midnight.

There was no reason for that choice except that the facts and the words

of a certain evening in his past were timing his conduct in the present.

The sudden power Natalia Haldin had gained over him he ascribed to the

same cause. “You don’t walk with impunity over a phantom’s breast,”

he heard himself mutter. “Thus he saves me,” he thought suddenly. “He

himself, the betrayed man.” The vivid image of Miss Haldin seemed to

stand by him, watching him relentlessly. She was not disturbing. He had

done with life, and his thought even in her presence tried to take an

impartial survey. Now his scorn extended to himself. “I had neither the

simplicity nor the courage nor the self-possession to be a scoundrel,

or an exceptionally able man. For who, with us in Russia, is to tell a

scoundrel from an exceptionally able man?...”

He was the puppet of his past, because at the very stroke of midnight he

jumped up and ran swiftly downstairs as if confident that, by the power

of destiny, the house door would fly open before the absolute necessity

of his errand. And as a matter of fact, just as he got to the bottom

of the stairs, it was opened for him by some people of the house coming

home late--two men and a woman. He slipped out through them into the

street, swept then by a fitful gust of wind. They were, of course, very

much startled. A flash of lightning enabled them to observe him walking

away quickly. One of the men shouted, and was starting in pursuit, but

the woman had recognized him. “It’s all right. It’s only that young

Russian from the third floor.” The darkness returned with a single clap

of thunder, like a gun fired for a warning of his escape from the prison

of lies.

He must have heard at some time or other and now remembered

unconsciously that there was to be a gathering of revolutionists at the

house of Julius Laspara that evening. At any rate, he made straight for

the Laspara house, and found himself without surprise ringing at its

street door, which, of course, was closed. By that time the thunderstorm

had attacked in earnest. The steep incline of the street ran with water,

the thick fall of rain enveloped him like a luminous veil in the play

of lightning. He was perfectly calm, and, between the crashes, listened

attentively to the delicate tinkling of the doorbell somewhere within

the house.

There was some difficulty before he was admitted. His person was not

known to that one of the guests who had volunteered to go downstairs and

see what was the matter. Razumov argued with him patiently. There could

be no harm in admitting a caller. He had something to communicate to the

company upstairs.

“Something of importance?”

“That’ll be for the hearers to judge.”

“Urgent?”

“Without a moment’s delay.”

Meantime, one of the Laspara daughters descended the stairs, small lamp

in hand, in a grimy and crumpled gown, which seemed to hang on her by a

miracle, and looking more than ever like an old doll with a dusty brown

wig, dragged from under a sofa. She recognized Razumov at once.

“How do you do? Of course you may come in.”

Following her light, Razumov climbed two flights of stairs from the

lower darkness. Leaving the lamp on a bracket on the landing, she opened

a door, and went in, accompanied by the sceptical guest. Razumov entered

last. He closed the door behind him, and stepping on one side, put his

back against the wall.

The three little rooms _en suite_, with low, smoky ceilings and lit by

paraffin lamps, were crammed with people. Loud talking was going on

in all three, and tea-glasses, full, half-full, and empty, stood

everywhere, even on the floor. The other Laspara girl sat, dishevelled

and languid, behind an enormous samovar. In the inner doorway Razumov

had a glimpse of the protuberance of a large stomach, which he

recognized. Only a few feet from him Julius Laspara was getting down

hurriedly from his high stool.

The appearance of the midnight visitor caused no small sensation.

Laspara is very summary in his version of that night’s happenings.

After some words of greeting, disregarded by Razumov, Laspara (ignoring

purposely his guest’s soaked condition and his extraordinary manner of

presenting himself) mentioned something about writing an article. He

was growing uneasy, and Razumov appeared absent-minded. “I have written

already all I shall ever write,” he said at last, with a little laugh.

The whole company’s attention was riveted on the new-comer, dripping

with water, deadly pale, and keeping his position against the wall.

Razumov put Laspara gently aside, as though he wished to be seen from

head to foot by everybody. By then the buzz of conversations had died

down completely, even in the most distant of the three rooms. The

doorway facing Razumov became blocked by men and women, who craned their

necks and certainly seemed to expect something startling to happen.

A squeaky, insolent declaration was heard from that group.

“I know this ridiculously conceited individual.”

“What individual?” asked Razumov, raising his bowed head, and searching

with his eyes all the eyes fixed upon him. An intense surprised silence

lasted for a time. “If it’s me....”

He stopped, thinking over the form of his confession, and found it

suddenly, unavoidably suggested by the fateful evening of his life.

“I am come here,” he began, in a clear voice, “to talk of an individual

called Ziemianitch. Sophia Antonovna has informed me that she would make

public a certain letter from St. Petersburg....”

“Sophia Antonovna has left us early in the evening,” said Laspara. “It’s

quite correct. Everybody here has heard....”

“Very well,” Razumov interrupted, with a shade of impatience, for his

heart was beating strongly. Then, mastering his voice so far that there

was even a touch of irony in his clear, forcible enunciation--

“In justice to that individual, the much ill-used peasant, Ziemianitch,

I now declare solemnly that the conclusions of that letter calumniate a

man of the people--a bright Russian soul. Ziemianitch had nothing to do

with the actual arrest of Victor Haldin.”

Razumov dwelt on the name heavily, and then waited till the faint,

mournful murmur which greeted it had died out.

“Victor Victorovitch Haldin,” he began again, “acting with, no doubt,

noble-minded imprudence, took refuge with a certain student of whose

opinions he knew nothing but what his own illusions suggested to his

generous heart. It was an unwise display of confidence. But I am not

here to appreciate the actions of Victor Haldin. Am I to tell you of

the feelings of that student, sought out in his obscure solitude, and

menaced by the complicity forced upon him? Am I to tell you what he did?

It’s a rather complicated story. In the end the student went to General

T--- himself, and said, ‘I have the man who killed de P--- locked up in

my room, Victor Haldin--a student like myself.’”

A great buzz arose, in which Razumov raised his voice.

“Observe--that man had certain honest ideals in view. But I didn’t come

here to explain him.”

“No. But you must explain how you know all this,” came in grave tones

from somebody.

“A vile coward!” This simple cry vibrated with indignation. “Name him!”

shouted other voices.

“What are you clamouring for?” said Razumov disdainfully, in the

profound silence which fell on the raising of his hand. “Haven’t you all

understood that I am that man?”

Laspara went away brusquely from his side and climbed upon his stool.

In the first forward surge of people towards him, Razumov expected to

be torn to pieces, but they fell back without touching him, and nothing

came of it but noise. It was bewildering. His head ached terribly.

In the confused uproar he made out several times the name of Peter

Ivanovitch, the word “judgement,” and the phrase, “But this is a

confession,” uttered by somebody in a desperate shriek. In the midst

of the tumult, a young man, younger than himself, approached him with

blazing eyes.

“I must beg you,” he said, with venomous politeness, “to be good enough

not to move from this spot till you are told what you are to do.”

Razumov shrugged his shoulders. “I came in voluntarily.”

“Maybe. But you won’t go out till you are permitted,” retorted the

other.

He beckoned with his hand, calling out, “Louisa! Louisa! come here,

please”; and, presently, one of the Laspara girls (they had been staring

at Razumov from behind the samovar) came along, trailing a bedraggled

tail of dirty flounces, and dragging with her a chair, which she set

against the door, and, sitting down on it, crossed her legs. The young

man thanked her effusively, and rejoined a group carrying on an animated

discussion in low tones. Razumov lost himself for a moment.

A squeaky voice screamed, “Confession or no confession, you are a police

spy!”

The revolutionist Nikita had pushed his way in front of Razumov, and

faced him with his big, livid cheeks, his heavy paunch, bull neck, and

enormous hands. Razumov looked at the famous slayer of gendarmes in

silent disgust.

“And what are you?” he said, very low, then shut his eyes, and rested

the back of his head against the wall.

“It would be better for you to depart now.” Razumov heard a mild, sad

voice, and opened his eyes. The gentle speaker was an elderly man, with

a great brush of fine hair making a silvery halo all round his

keen, intelligent face. “Peter Ivanovitch shall be informed of your

confession--and you shall be directed....”

Then, turning to Nikita, nicknamed Necator, standing by, he appealed to

him in a murmur--

“What else can we do? After this piece of sincerity he cannot be

dangerous any longer.”

The other muttered, “Better make sure of that before we let him go.

Leave that to me. I know how to deal with such gentlemen.”

He exchanged meaning glances with two or three men, who nodded slightly,

then turning roughly to Razumov, “You have heard? You are not wanted

here. Why don’t you get out?”

The Laspara girl on guard rose, and pulled the chair out of the way

unemotionally. She gave a sleepy stare to Razumov, who started, looked

round the room and passed slowly by her as if struck by some sudden

thought.

“I beg you to observe,” he said, already on the landing, “that I had

only to hold my tongue. To-day, of all days since I came amongst you,

I was made safe, and to-day I made myself free from falsehood, from

remorse--independent of every single human being on this earth.”

He turned his back on the room, and walked towards the stairs, but, at

the violent crash of the door behind him, he looked over his shoulder

and saw that Nikita, with three others, had followed him out. “They are

going to kill me, after all,” he thought.

Before he had time to turn round and confront them fairly, they set

on him with a rush. He was driven headlong against the wall. “I wonder

how,” he completed his thought. Nikita cried, with a shrill laugh right

in his face, “We shall make you harmless. You wait a bit.”

Razumov did not struggle. The three men held him pinned against

the wall, while Nikita, taking up a position a little on one side,

deliberately swung off his enormous arm. Razumov, looking for a knife

in his hand, saw it come at him open, unarmed, and received a tremendous

blow on the side of his head over his ear. At the same time he heard a

faint, dull detonating sound, as if some one had fired a pistol on the

other side of the wall. A raging fury awoke in him at this outrage.

The people in Laspara’s rooms, holding their breath, listened to the

desperate scuffling of four men all over the landing; thuds against the

walls, a terrible crash against the very door, then all of them went

down together with a violence which seemed to shake the whole house.

Razumov, overpowered, breathless, crushed under the weight of his

assailants, saw the monstrous Nikita squatting on his heels near his

head, while the others held him down, kneeling on his chest, gripping

his throat, lying across his legs.

“Turn his face the other way,” the paunchy terrorist directed, in an

excited, gleeful squeak.

Razumov could struggle no longer. He was exhausted; he had to watch

passively the heavy open hand of the brute descend again in a degrading

blow over his other ear. It seemed to split his head in two, and all at

once the men holding him became perfectly silent--soundless as shadows.

In silence they pulled him brutally to his feet, rushed with him

noiselessly down the staircase, and, opening the door, flung him out

into the street.

He fell forward, and at once rolled over and over helplessly, going down

the short slope together with the rush of running rain water. He came to

rest in the roadway of the street at the bottom, lying on his back,

with a great flash of lightning over his face--a vivid, silent flash of

lightning which blinded him utterly. He picked himself up, and put his

arm over his eyes to recover his sight. Not a sound reached him from

anywhere, and he began to walk, staggering, down a long, empty street.

The lightning waved and darted round him its silent flames, the water of

the deluge fell, ran, leaped, drove--noiseless like the drift of mist.

In this unearthly stillness his footsteps fell silent on the pavement,

while a dumb wind drove him on and on, like a lost mortal in a phantom

world ravaged by a soundless thunderstorm. God only knows where his

noiseless feet took him to that night, here and there, and back again

without pause or rest. Of one place, at least, where they did lead

him, we heard afterwards; and, in the morning, the driver of the first

south-shore tramcar, clanging his bell desperately, saw a bedraggled,

soaked man without a hat, and walking in the roadway unsteadily with his

head down, step right in front of his car, and go under.

When they picked him up, with two broken limbs and a crushed side,

Razumov had not lost consciousness. It was as though he had tumbled,

smashing himself, into a world of mutes. Silent men, moving unheard,

lifted him up, laid him on the sidewalk, gesticulating and grimacing

round him their alarm, horror, and compassion. A red face with

moustaches stooped close over him, lips moving, eyes rolling. Razumov

tried hard to understand the reason of this dumb show. To those who

stood around him, the features of that stranger, so grievously hurt,

seemed composed in meditation. Afterwards his eyes sent out at them

a look of fear and closed slowly. They stared at him. Razumov made an

effort to remember some French words.

“_Je suis sourd_,” he had time to utter feebly, before he fainted.

“He is deaf,” they exclaimed to each other. “That’s why he did not hear

the car.”

They carried him off in that same car. Before it started on its journey,

a woman in a shabby black dress, who had run out of the iron gate of

some private grounds up the road, clambered on to the rear platform and

would not be put off.

“I am a relation,” she insisted, in bad French. “This young man is a

Russian, and I am his relation.” On this plea they let her have her way.

She sat down calmly, and took his head on her lap; her scared faded eyes

avoided looking at his deathlike face. At the corner of a street, on the

other side of the town, a stretcher met the car. She followed it to the

door of the hospital, where they let her come in and see him laid on a

bed. Razumov’s new-found relation never shed a tear, but the officials

had some difficulty in inducing her to go away. The porter observed her

lingering on the opposite pavement for a long time. Suddenly, as though

she had remembered something, she ran off.

The ardent hater of all Finance ministers, the slave of Madame de S--,

had made up her mind to offer her resignation as lady companion to

the Egeria of Peter Ivanovitch. She had found work to do after her own

heart.

But hours before, while the thunderstorm still raged in the night, there

had been in the rooms of Julius Laspara a great sensation. The terrible

Nikita, coming in from the landing, uplifted his squeaky voice in

horrible glee before all the company--

“Razumov! Mr. Razumov! The wonderful Razumov! He shall never be any use

as a spy on any one. He won’t talk, because he will never hear anything

in his life--not a thing! I have burst the drums of his ears for him.

Oh, you may trust me. I know the trick. Ha! Ha! Ha! I know the trick.”

V

It was nearly a fortnight after her mother’s funeral that I saw Natalia

Haldin for the last time.

In those silent, sombre days the doors of the _appartement_ on the

Boulevard des Philosophes were closed to every one but myself. I believe

I was of some use, if only in this, that I alone was aware of the

incredible part of the situation. Miss Haldin nursed her mother alone

to the last moment. If Razumov’s visit had anything to do with

Mrs. Haldin’s end (and I cannot help thinking that it hastened it

considerably), it is because the man, trusted impulsively by the

ill-fated Victor Haldin, had failed to gain the confidence of Victor

Haldin’s mother. What tale, precisely, he told her cannot be known--at

any rate, I do not know it--but to me she seemed to die from the shock

of an ultimate disappointment borne in silence. She had not believed

him. Perhaps she could no longer believe any one, and consequently had

nothing to say to any one--not even to her daughter. I suspect that Miss

Haldin lived the heaviest hours of her life by that silent death-bed.

I confess I was angry with the broken-hearted old woman passing away in

the obstinacy of her mute distrust of her daughter.

When it was all over I stood aside. Miss Haldin had her compatriots

round her then. A great number of them attended the funeral. I was

there too, but afterwards managed to keep away from Miss Haldin, till I

received a short note rewarding my self-denial. “It is as you would have

it. I am going back to Russia at once. My mind is made up. Come and see

me.”

Verily, it was a reward of discretion. I went without delay to receive

it. The _appartement_ of the Boulevard des Philosophes presented the

dreary signs of impending abandonment. It looked desolate and as if

already empty to my eyes.

Standing, we exchanged a few words about her health, mine, remarks as to

some people of the Russian colony, and then Natalia Haldin, establishing

me on the sofa, began to talk openly of her future work, of her plans.

It was all to be as I had wished it. And it was to be for life. We

should never see each other again. Never!

I gathered this success to my breast. Natalia Haldin looked matured by

her open and secret experiences. With her arms folded she walked up and

down the whole length of the room, talking slowly, smooth-browed, with a

resolute profile. She gave me a new view of herself, and I marvelled at

that something grave and measured in her voice, in her movements, in her

manner. It was the perfection of collected independence. The strength

of her nature had come to surface because the obscure depths had been

stirred.

“We two can talk of it now,” she observed, after a silence and stopping

short before me. “Have you been to inquire at the hospital lately?”

“Yes, I have.” And as she looked at me fixedly, “He will live, the

doctors say. But I thought that Tekla....”

“Tekla has not been near me for several days,” explained Miss Haldin

quickly. “As I never offered to go to the hospital with her, she thinks

that I have no heart. She is disillusioned about me.”

And Miss Haldin smiled faintly.

“Yes. She sits with him as long and as often as they will let her,” I

said. “She says she must never abandon him--never as long as she lives.

He’ll need somebody--a hopeless cripple, and stone deaf with that.”

“Stone deaf? I didn’t know,” murmured Natalia Haldin.

“He is. It seems strange. I am told there were no apparent injuries to

the head. They say, too, that it is not very likely that he will live so

very long for Tekla to take care of him.”

Miss Haldin shook her head.

“While there are travellers ready to fall by the way our Tekla shall

never be idle. She is a good Samaritan by an irresistible vocation. The

revolutionists didn’t understand her. Fancy a devoted creature like that

being employed to carry about documents sewn in her dress, or made to

write from dictation.”

“There is not much perspicacity in the world.”

No sooner uttered, I regretted that observation. Natalia Haldin, looking

me straight in the face, assented by a slight movement of her head. She

was not offended, but turning away began to pace the room again. To my

western eyes she seemed to be getting farther and farther from me, quite

beyond my reach now, but undiminished in the increasing distance. I

remained silent as though it were hopeless to raise my voice. The sound

of hers, so close to me, made me start a little.

“Tekla saw him picked up after the accident. The good soul never

explained to me really how it came about. She affirms that there was

some understanding between them--some sort of compact--that in any sore

need, in misfortune, or difficulty, or pain, he was to come to her.”

“Was there?” I said. “It is lucky for him that there was, then. He’ll

need all the devotion of the good Samaritan.”

It was a fact that Tekla, looking out of her window at five in the

morning, for some reason or other, had beheld Razumov in the grounds of

the Chateau Borel, standing stockstill, bare-headed in the rain, at the

foot of the terrace. She had screamed out to him, by name, to know

what was the matter. He never even raised his head. By the time she had

dressed herself sufficiently to run downstairs he was gone. She started

in pursuit, and rushing out into the road, came almost directly upon the

arrested tramcar and the small knot of people picking up Razumov. That

much Tekla had told me herself one afternoon we happened to meet at the

door of the hospital, and without any kind of comment. But I did not

want to meditate very long on the inwardness of this peculiar episode.

“Yes, Natalia Victorovna, he shall need somebody when they dismiss him,

on crutches and stone deaf from the hospital. But I do not think that

when he rushed like an escaped madman into the grounds of the Chateau

Borel it was to seek the help of that good Tekla.”

“No,” said Natalia, stopping short before me, “perhaps not.” She sat

down and leaned her head on her hand thoughtfully. The silence lasted

for several minutes. During that time I remembered the evening of his

atrocious confession--the plaint she seemed to have hardly enough life

left in her to utter, “It is impossible to be more unhappy....” The

recollection would have given me a shudder if I had not been lost

in wonder at her force and her tranquillity. There was no longer any

Natalia Haldin, because she had completely ceased to think of herself.

It was a great victory, a characteristically Russian exploit in

self-suppression.

She recalled me to myself by getting up suddenly like a person who has

come to a decision. She walked to the writing-table, now stripped of all

the small objects associated with her by daily use--a mere piece of dead

furniture; but it contained something living, still, since she took from

a recess a flat parcel which she brought to me.

“It’s a book,” she said rather abruptly. “It was sent to me wrapped

up in my veil. I told you nothing at the time, but now I’ve decided to

leave it with you. I have the right to do that. It was sent to me. It

is mine. You may preserve it, or destroy it after you have read it. And

while you read it, please remember that I was defenceless. And that

he..”

“Defenceless!” I repeated, surprised, looking hard at her.

“You’ll find the very word written there,” she whispered. “Well, it’s

true! I _was_ defenceless--but perhaps you were able to see that for

yourself.” Her face coloured, then went deadly pale. “In justice to the

man, I want you to remember that I was. Oh, I was, I was!”