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Updated: May 12, 2025
But the time has come when Councillor of State Mikulin can no longer be ignored. His simple question "Where to?" on which we left Mr. Razumov in St. Petersburg, throws a light on the general meaning of this individual case. "Where to?" was the answer in the form of a gentle question to what we may call Mr. Razumov's declaration of independence.
And at once against his will the question, "Hadn't I better tell him everything?" presented itself with such force that he had to bite his lower lip. Councillor Mikulin could not, however, have nourished any hope of confession. He went on "You tell me more than his judges were able to get out of him. He was judged by a commission of three. He would tell them absolutely nothing.
Razumov stopped. His heart had grown too big for his breast. Councillor Mikulin did not flinch. "Why so?" he said simply. "I assisted personally at the search of your rooms. I looked through all the papers myself. I have been greatly impressed by a sort of political confession of faith. A very remarkable document. Now may I ask for what purpose...."
The clerk in uniform who conducted him said in the corridor "You are going before Gregor Matvieitch Mikulin." There was nothing formidable about the man bearing that name. His mild, expectant glance was turned on the door already when Razumov entered. At once, with the penholder he was holding in his hand, he pointed to a deep sofa between two windows.
But Razumov knew that this, his first communication for Councillor Mikulin, would find its way to the Embassy there, be copied in cypher by somebody trustworthy, and sent on to its destination, all safe, along with the diplomatic correspondence.
Councillor Mikulin shrugged his shoulders slightly, and Razumov got up with an effort. There was nothing now to stay for in that room. Haldin had been hanged at four o'clock. There could be no doubt of that. He had, it seemed, entered upon his future existence, long boots, Astrakhan fur cap and all, down to the very leather strap round his waist. A flickering, vanishing sort of existence.
"Listening is a great art," observed Mikulin parenthetically. "And getting people to talk is another," mumbled Razumov. "Well, no that is not very difficult," Mikulin said innocently, "except, of course, in special cases. For instance, this Haldin. Nothing could induce him to talk. He was brought four times before the delegated judges.
Then, pale like a corpse obeying the dread summons of judgement, Razumov opened his eyes and got up. Nobody will be surprised to hear, I suppose, that when the summons came he went to see Councillor Mikulin. It came that very morning, while, looking white and shaky, like an invalid just out of bed, he was trying to shave himself. The envelope was addressed in the little attorney's handwriting.
"Councillor Mikulin threw back his head into proper focus and went on reading monotonously: 'Question Has the man well known to you, in whose rooms you remained for several hours on Monday and on whose information you have been arrested has he had any previous knowledge of your intention to commit a political murder?... Prisoner refuses to reply. "Question repeated.
Yet he is certain that he never lost the consciousness of himself on the sofa, leaning forward with his hands between his knees and turning his cap round and round in his fingers. But everything vanished at the voice of Councillor Mikulin. Razumov felt profoundly grateful for the even simplicity of its tone. "Yes. I have listened with interest.
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