under western eyes-第13节

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The　man　would　be　disguised　perhaps　as　a　peasant　。　。　。a　beggar。　。　。　。

Perhaps　he　would　be　just　buttoned　up　in　a　dark　overcoat　and　carrying

a　loaded　sticka　shifty…eyed　rascal；　smelling　of　raw　onions　and　spirits。



This　evocation　brought　on　positive　nausea。　　〃Why　do　I　want　to

bother　about　this？〃　　thought　Razumov　with　disgust。　　〃Am　I　a　gendarme？

Moreover；　it　is　done。〃



He　got　up　in　great　agitation。　　It　was　not　done。　　Not　yet。　　Not

till　half…past　twelve。　　And　the　watch　had　stopped。　　This　reduced

him　to　despair。　　Impossible　to　know　the　time！　　The　andlady　and

all　the　people　across　the　landing　were　asleep。　　How　could　he　go

and。　。　。God　knows　what　they　would　imagine；　or　how　much　they

would　guess。　　He　dared　not　go　into　the　streets　to　find　out。

〃I　am　a　suspect　now。　　There's　no　use　shirking　that　fact；〃　he　said

to　himself　bitterly。　　If　Haldin　from　some　cause　or　another　gave

them　the　slip　and。failed　to　turn　up　in　the　Karabelnaya　the　police

would　be　invading　his　lodging。　　And　if　he　were　not　in　he　could

never　clear　himself。　　Never。　　Razumov　looked　wildly　about　as　if

for　some　means　of　seizing　upon　time　which　seemed　to　have　escaped

him　altogether。　　He　had　never；　as　far　as　he　could　remember；　heard

the　striking　of　that　town　clock　in　his　rooms　before　this　night。

And　he　was　not　even　sure　now　whether　he　had　heard　it　really　on

this　night。



He　went　to　the　window　and　stood　there　with　slightly　bent　head

on　the　watch　for　the　faint　sound。　　'I　will　stay　here　till　I　hear

something；〃　he　said　to　himself。　　He　stood　still；　his　ear　turned

to　the　panes。　　An　atrocious　aching　numbness　with　shooting　pains

in　his　back　and　legs　tortured　him。　　He　did　not　budge。　　His　　mind

hovered　on　the　borders　of　delirium。　　He　heard　himself　suddenly

saying；　〃I　confess；〃　as　a　person　might　do　on　the　rack。　　〃I　am　on

the　rack；〃　he　thought。　　He　felt　ready　to　swoon。　　The　faint　deep

boom　of　the　distant　clock　seemed　to　explode　in　his　headhe　heard

it　so　clearly。　。　。　。　　One！



If　Haldin　had　not　turned　up　the　police　would　have　been　already

here　ransacking　the　house。　　No　sound　reached　him。　　This　time　it

was　done。



He　dragged　himself　painfully　to　the　table　and　dropped　into　the

chair。　　He　flung　the　book　away　and　took　a　square　sheet　of　paper。

It　was　like　the　pile　of　sheets　covered　with　his　neat　minute

handwriting；　only　blank。　　He　took　a　pen　brusquely　and　dipped　it

with　a　vague　notion　of　going　on　with　the　writing　of　his

essaybut　his　pen　remained　poised　over　the　sheet。　　It　hung　there

for　some　time　before　it　came　down　and　formed　long　scrawly

letters。



Still…faced　and　his　lips　set　hard；　Razumov　began　to　write。　　When

he　wrote　a　large　hand　his　neat　writing　lost　its　character

altogetherbecame　unsteady；　almost　childish。　　He　wrote　five

lines　one　under　the　other。

History　not　Theory。

Patriotism　not　Internationalism。

Evolution　not　Revolution。

Direction　not　Destruction。

Unity　not　Disruption。



He　gazed　at　them　dully。　　Then　his　eyes　strayed　to　the　bed　and

reInajned　fixed　there　for　a　good　many　minutes；　while　his

right　hand　groped　all　over　the　table　for　the　penknife。



He　rose　at　last；　and　walking　up　with　measured　steps　stabbed　the

paper　with　the　penknife　to　the　lath　and　plaster　wall　at　the　head

of　the　bed。　　This　done　he　stepped　back　a　pace　and　flourished　his

hand　with　a　glance　round　the　room。



After　that　he　never　looked　again　at　the　bed。　　He　took　his　big

cloak　down　from　its　peg　and；　wrapping　himself　up　closely；　went　to

lie　down　on　the　hard　horse…hair　sofa　at　the　other　side　of　his

room。　　A　leaden　sleep　closed　his　eyelids　at　once。　　Several　times

that　night　he　woke　up　shivering　from　a　dream　of　walking　through

drifts　of　snow　in　a　Russia　where　he　was　as　completely　alone　as

any　betrayed　autocrat　could　be；　an　immense；　wintry　Russia　which；

somehow；　his　view　could　embrace　in　all　its　enormous　expanse　as　if

it　were　a　map。　　But　after　each　shuddering　start　his　heavy　eyelids

fell　over　his　glazed　eyes　and　he　slept　again。





III





Approaching　this　part　of　Mr。　Razumov's　story；　my　mind；　the　decent

mind　of　an　old　teacher　of　languages；　feels　more　and　more　the

difficulty　of　the　task。



The　task　is　not　in　truth　the　writing　in　the　narrative　form　a

_precis_　of　a　strange　human　document；　but　the　renderingI

perceive　it　now　clearlyof　the　moral　conditions　ruling　over　a

large　portion　of　this　earth's　surface；　conditions　not　easily　to

be　understood；　much　less　discovered　in　the　limits　of　a　story；

till　some　key…word　is　found；　a　word　that　could　stand　at　the　back

of　all　the　words　covering　the　pages；　a　word　which；　if　not　truth

itself；　may　perchance　hold　truth　enough　to　help　the　moral

discovery　which　should　be　the　object　of　every　tale。



I　turn　over　for　the　hundredth　time　the　leaves　of　Mr。　Razumov's　record；

I　lay　it　aside；　I　take　up　the　penand　the　pen　being　ready　for　its　office

of　setting　down　black　on　white　I　hesitate。　　For　the　word　that　persists

in　creeping　under　its　point　is　no　other　word　than　〃cynicism。〃



For　that　is　the　mark　of　Russian　autocracy　and　of　Russian　revolt。

In　its　pride　of　numbers；　in　its　strange　pretensions　of　sanctity；

and　in　the　secret　readiness　to　abase　itself　in　suffering；　the

spirit　of　Russia　is　the　spirit　of　cynicism。　　It　informs　the

declarations　of　her　statesmen；　the　theories　of　her

revolutionists；　and　the　mystic　vaticinations　of　prophets　to　the

point　of　making　freedom　look　like　a　form　of　debauch；　and　the

Christian　virtues　themselves　appear　actually　indecent。　。　。　。

But　I　must　apologize　for　the　digression。　　It　proceeds　from　the

consideration　of　the　course　taken　by　the　story　of　Mr。　Razumov

after　his　conservative　convictions；　diluted　in　a　vague　liberalism

natural　to　the　ardour　of　his　age；　had　become　crystallized　by　the

shock　of　his　contact　with　Haldin。



Razumov　woke　up　for　the　tenth　time　perhaps　with　a　heavy　shiver。

Seeing　the　light　of　day　in　his　window；　he　resisted　the

inclination　to　lay　himself　down　again。　　He　did　not　remember

anything；　but　he　did　not　think　it　strange　to　find　himself　on　the

sofa　in　his　cloak　and　chilled　to　the　bone。　　The　light　coming

through　the　window　seemed　strangely　cheerless；　containing　no

promise　as　the　light　of　each　new　day　should　for　a　young　man。　　It

was　the　awakening　of　a　man　mortally　ill；　or　of　a　man　ninety　years

old。　　He　looked　at　the　lamp　which　had　burnt　itself　out。　　It　stood

there；　the　extinguished　beacon　of　his　labours；　a　cold　object　of

brass　and　porcelain；　amongst　the　scattered　pages　of　his　notes　and

small　piles　of　booksa　mere　litter　of　blackened　paperdead

matterwithout　significance　or　interest。



He　got　on　his　feet；　and　divesting　himself　of　his　cloak　hung

it　on　the　peg；　going　through　all　the　motions　mechanically。　　An

incredible　dullness；　a　ditch…water　stagnation　was　sensible　to　his

perceptions　as　though　life　had　withdrawn　itself　from　all　things

and　even　from　his　own　thoughts。　　There　was　not　a　sound　in　the　house。



Turning　away　from　the　peg；　he　thought　in　that　same　lifeless

manner　that　it　must　be　very　early　yet；　but　when　he　looked　at　the

watch　on　his　table　he　saw　both　hands　arrested　at　twelve　o'clock。

〃Ah！　yes；〃　he　mumbled　to　himself；　and　as　if　beginning　to　get

roused　a　little　he　took　a　survey　of　his　room。　　The　paper　stabbed

to　the　wall　arrested　his　attention。　　He　eyed　it　from　the　distance

without　approval　or　perplexity；　but　when　he　heard　the

servant…girl　beginning　to　bustle　about　in　the　outer　room　with　the

_samovar_　for　his　morning　tea；　he　walked　up　to　it　and　took　it

down　with　an　air　of　profound　indifference。



While　doing　this　he　glanced　down　at　the　bed　on　which　he　had　not

slept　that　night。　　The　hollow　in　the　pillow　made　by　the　weight　of

Haldin's　head　was　very　noticeable。



Even　his　anger　at　this　sign　of　the　man's　passage　was　dull。　　He

did　not　try　to　nurse　it　into　life。　　He　did　nothing　all　that　day；

he　neglected　even　to　brush　his　hair。　　The　idea　of　going　out　never

occurred　to　himand　if　he　did　not　start　a　connected　train　of

thought　it　was　not　because　he　was　unable　to　think。　　It　was

because　he　was　not　interested　enough。



He　yawned　frequently。　　He　drank　large　quantities　of　tea；　he

walked　about　aimlessly；　and　when　he　sat　down　he　did　not　budge　for

a　long　time。　　He　spent　some　time　drumming　on　the　window　with　his

finger…tips　quietly。　　In　his　listless　wanderings　round　about　the

table　he　caught　sight　of　his　own　face　in　the　looking…glass　and

that　arrested　him。　　The　eyes　which　returned　his　stare　were

the　most　unhappy　eyes　he　had　ever　seen。　　And　this　was　the　first

thing　which　disturbed　the　mental　stagnation　of　that　day。



He　was　not　affected　personally。　　He　merely　thought　that　life

without　happiness　is　impossible。　　What　was　happiness？　　He　yawned

and　went　on　shuffling　about　and　about　between　the　walls　of　his

room。　　Looking　forward　was　happinessthat's　allnothing　more。

To　look　forward　to　the　gratification　of　some　desire；　to　the

gratification　of　some　passion；　love；　ambition；　hatehate　too

indubitably。　　Love　and　hate。　　And　to　e