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I wanted to bring it forward simply to make what I have to say presently of Mr. Razumov's presence in Geneva, a little more credible for this is a Russian story for Western ears, which, as I have observed already, are not attuned to certain tones of cynicism and cruelty, of moral negation, and even of moral distress already silenced at our end of Europe.
Razumov's case the bitterness of solitude from which he suffered was not an altogether morbid phenomenon. That I should, at the beginning of this retrospect, mention again that Mr. Razumov's youth had no one in the world, as literally no one as it can be honestly affirmed of any human being, is but a statement of fact from a man who believes in the psychological value of facts.
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.
"And you say he came in to make you this confidence like this for nothing a propos des bottes." Razumov felt danger in the air. The merciless suspicion of despotism had spoken openly at last. Sudden fear sealed Razumov's lips. The silence of the room resembled now the silence of a deep dungeon, where time does not count, and a suspect person is sometimes forgotten for ever.
They can only be displaced at the cost of corrupted consciences and broken lives a futile game for arrogant philosophers and sanguinary triflers. Those thoughts darted through Razumov's head while he stood facing the old revolutionary hand, the respected, trusted, and influential Sophia Antonovna, whose word had such a weight in the "active" section of every party.
These meetings were a risk, and there was nothing more to settle. "We have said everything to each other by now, Kirylo Sidorovitch," said the high official feelingly, pressing Razumov's hand with that unreserved heartiness a Russian can convey in his manner. "There is nothing obscure between us. And I will tell you what! I consider myself fortunate in having h'm your..."
He remained perfectly still for a moment, then made Razumov's leaden heart strike a ponderous blow by springing up briskly. "So be it," he cried sadly in a low, distinct tone. "Farewell then." Razumov started forward, but the sight of Haldin's raised hand checked him before he could get away from the table. He leaned on it heavily, listening to the faint sounds of some town clock tolling the hour.
Razumov's brain since he was able to write his relation with such fullness and precision a good many months afterwards. The record of the thoughts which assailed him in the street is even more minute and abundant.
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