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〃As we have at present no one affiliated inside the fortress so
as to make it possible to furnish him with a packet of poison； we
have considered already some sort of retaliatory actionto
follow very soon。 。 。〃
Razumov trudging on interrupted
〃Were you acquainted with Haldin？ Did he know where you live？〃
〃I had the happiness to hear him speak twice；〃 his companion
answered in the feverish whisper contrasting with the gloomy
apathy of his face and bearing。 〃He did not know where
I live 。 。 。 。 I am lodging poorly with an artisan family。 。 。 。
I have just a corner in a room。 It is not very practicable to
see me there； but if you should need me for anything I am ready。 。 。 。
Razumov trembled with rage and fear。 He was beside himself；
but kept his voice low。
〃You are not to come near me。 You are not to speak to me。 Never
address a single word to me。 I forbid you。〃
〃Very well；〃 said the other submissively； showing no surprise
whatever at this abrupt prohibition。 〃You don't wish for secret
reasons。 。 。perfectly。 。 。I understand。〃
He edged away at once； not looking up even； and Razumov saw his
gaunt； shabby； famine…stricken figure cross the street obliquely
with lowered head and that peculiar exact motion of the feet。
He watched him as one would watch a vision out of a nightmare；
then he continued on his way； trying not to think。 On his
landing the landlady seemed to be waiting for him。 She was a
short； thick； shapeless woman with a large yellow face wrapped up
everlastingly in a black woollen shawl。 When she saw him come up
the last flight of stairs she flung both her arms up excitedly；
then clasped her hands before her face。
〃Kirylo Sidorovitchlittle fatherwhat have you been doing？
And such a quiet young man； too！ The police are just gone this
moment after searching your rooms。〃
Razumov gazed down at her with silent； scrutinizing attention。
Her puffy yellow countenance was working with emotion。 She
screwed up her eyes at him entreatingly。
〃Such a sensible young man！ Anybody can see you are sensible。
And nowlike thisall at once。 。 。 。 What is the good of mixing
yourself up with these Nihilists？ Do give over； little father。
They are unlucky people。〃
Razumov moved his shoulders slightly。
〃Or is it that some secret enemy has been calumniating you；
Kirylo Sidorovitch？ The world is full of black hearts and false
denunciations nowadays。 There is much fear about。〃
〃Have you heard that I have been denounced by some one？〃
asked Razumov； without taking his eyes off her quivering face。
But she had not heard anything。 She had tried to find out by
asking the police captain while his men were turning the room
upside down。 The police captain of the district had known her
for the last eleven years and was a humane person。 But he said
to her on the landing； looking very black and vexed
〃My good woman； do not ask questions。 I don't know anything
myself。 The order comes from higher quarters。〃
And indeed there had appeared；shortly after the arrival of the
policemen of the district； a very superior gentleman in a fur
coat and a shiny hat； who sat down in the room and looked through
all the papers himself。 He came alone and went away by himself；
taking nothing with him。 She had been trying to put things
straight a little since they left。
Razumov turned away brusquely and entered his rooms。
All his books had been shaken and thrown on the floor。 His
landlady followed him； and stooping painfully began to pick them
up into her apron。 His papers and notes which were kept always
neatly sorted （they all related to his studies） had been shuffled
up and heaped together into a ragged pile in the middle of the table。
This disorder affectecI him profoundly； unreasonably。 He sat
down and stared。 He had a distinct sensation of his very
existence being undermined in some mysterious manner； of his
moral supports falling away from him one by one。 He even
experienced a slight physical giddiness and made a movement
as if to reach for something to steady himself with。
The old woman； rising to her feet with a low groan； shot all
the books she had collected in her apron on to the sofa and left
the room muttering and sighing。
It was only then that he noticed that the sheet of paper which
for one night had remained stabbed to the wall above his empty
bed was lying on top of the pile。
When he had taken it down the day before he had folded it in
four； absent…mindedly； before dropping it on the table。 And now
he saw it lying uppermost； spread out； smoothed out even and
covering all the confused pile of pages； the record of his
intellectual life for the last three years。 It had not been
flung there。 It had been placed theresmoothed out； too！ He
guessed in that an intention of profound meaningor perhaps some
inexplicable mockery。
He sat staring at the piece of paper till his eyes began to
smart。 He did not attempt to put his papers in order； either
that evening or the next daywhich he spent at home in a state
of peculiar irresolution。 This irresoIution bore upon the
question whether he should continue to liveneither more nor
less。 But its nature was very far removed from the hesitation of
a man contemplating suicide。 The idea of laying violent hands
upon his body did not occur to Razumov。 The unrelated organism
bearing that label； walking； breathing； wearing these clothes；
was of no importance to anyone； unless maybe to the landlady。
The true Razumov had his being in the willed； in the determined
futurein that future menaced by the lawlessness of
autocracyfor autocracy knows no lawand the lawlessness of
revolution。 The feeling that his moral personality was at the
mercy of these lawless forces was so strong that he asked himself
seriously if it were worth while to go on accomplishing the men
tal functions of that existence which seemed no longer his own。
〃What is the good of exerting my intelligence； of pursuing the
systematic development of my faculties and all my plans of work？〃
he asked himself。 〃I want to guide my conduct by reasonable convictions；
but what security have I against somethingsome destructive horror
walking in upon me as I sit here？。 。 。
Razumov looked apprehensively towards the door of the outer room
as if expecting some shape of evil to turn the handle and appear
before him silently。
〃A common thief；〃 he said to himself； 〃finds more guarantees in
the law he is breaking； and even a brute like Ziemianitch has his
consolation。〃 Razumov envied the materialism of the thief and
the passion of the incorrigible lover。 The consequences of their
actions were always clear and their lives remained their own。
But he slept as soundly that night as though he had been
consoling himself in the manner of Ziemianitch。 He dropped off
suddenly； lay like a log； remembered no dream on wak