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the spoke…like shadows on the walls。 And only the sound of blows
was heard。 It was a weird scene。
Suddenly there was a sharp crack。 The stick broke and half of it
flew far away into the gloom beyond the light。 At the same time
Ziemianitch sat up。 At this Razumov became as motionless as the
man with the lanternonly his breast heaved for air as if ready
to burst。
Some dull sensation of pain must have penetrated at last the
consoling night of drunkenness enwrapping the 〃bright Russian
soul〃 of Haldin's enthusiastic praise。 But Ziemianitch evidently
saw nothing。 His eyeballs blinked all white in the light once；
twicethen the gleam went out。 For a moment he sat in the straw
with closed eyes with a strange air of weary meditation； then
fell over slowly on his side without making the slightest sound。
Only the straw rustled a little。 Razumov stared wildly； fighting
for his breath。 After a second or two he heard a light snore。
He flung from him the piece of stick remaining in his grasp； and
went off with great hasty strides without looking back once。
After going heedlessly for some fifty yards along the street he
walked into a snowdrift and was up to his knees before he stopped。
This recalled him to himself； and glancing about he discovered he
had been going in the wrong direction。 He retraced his steps； but
now at a more moderate pace。 When passing before the house he had
just left he flourished his fist at the sombre refuge of
misery and crime rearing its sinister bulk on the white ground。
It had an air of brooding。 He let his arm fall by his
sidediscouraged。
Ziemianitch's passionate surrender to sorrow and consolation had
baffled him。 That was the people。 A true Russian man！ Razumov
was glad he had beaten that brutethe 〃bright soul〃 of the
other。 Here they were： the people and the enthusiast。
Between the two he was done for。 Between the drunkenness of the
peasant incapable of action and the dream…intoxication of the
idealist incapable of perceiving the reason of things； and the
true character of men。 It was a sort of terrible childishness。
But children had their masters。 〃Ah！ the stick； the stick； the
stern hand；〃 thought Razumov； longing for power to hurt and
destroy。
He was glad he had thrashed that brute。 The physical exertion
had left his body in a comfortable glow。 His mental agitation
too was clarified as if all the feverishness had gone out of him
in a fit of outward violence。 Together with the persisting sense
of terrible danger he was conscious now of a tranquil；
unquenchable hate。
He walked slower and slower。 And indeed； considering the guest
he had in his rooms； it was no wonder he lingered on the way。 It
was like harbouring a pestilential disease that would not perhaps
take your life； but would take from you all that made life worth
living a subtle pest that would convert earth into a hell。
What was he doing now？ Lying on the bed as if dead； with the
back of his hands over his eyes？ Razumov had a morbidly vivid
vision of Haldin on his bedthe white pillow hollowed by the
head； the legs in long boots； the upturned feet。 And in his
abhorrence he said to himself； 〃I'll kill him when I get home。〃
But he knew very well that that was of no use。 The corpse
hanging round his neck would be nearly as fatal as the living
man。 Nothing short of complete annihilation would do。 And that
was impossible。 What then？ Must one kill oneself to escape this
visitation？
Razumov's despair was too profoundly tinged with hate to accept
that issue。
And yet it was despairnothing lessat the thought of having to
live with Haldin for an indefinite number of days in mortal alarm
at every sound。 But perhaps when he heard that this 〃bright
soul〃 of Ziemianitch suffered from a drunken eclipse the fellow
would take his infernal resignation somewhere else。 And that was
not likely on the face of it。
Razumov thought：〃I am being crushedand I can't even run away。〃
Other men had somewhere a corner of the earthsome little house
in the provinces where they had a right to take their troubles。
A material refuge。 He had nothing。 He had not even a moral
refugethe refuge of confidence。 To whom could he go with this
talein all this great； great land？
Razumov stamped his footand under the soft carpet of snow felt
the hard ground of Russia； inanimate； cold； inert； like a sullen
and tragic mother hiding her face under a winding…sheethis
native soil！his very ownwithout a fireside； without a heart！
He cast his eyes upwards and stood amazed。 The snow had ceased to
fall； and now； as if by a miracle； he saw above his head the
clear black sky of the northern winter； decorated with the
sumptuous fires of the stars。 It was a canopy fit for the
resplendent purity of the snows。
Razumov received an almost physical impression of endless space
and of countless millions。
He responded to it with the readiness of a Russian who is born to
an inheritance of space and numbers。 Under the sumptuous
immensity of the sky； the snow covered the endless forests；
the frozen rivers； the plains of an immense country； obliterating
the landmarks； the accidents of the ground； levelling everything
under its uniform whiteness； like a monstrous blank page awaiting
the record of an inconceivable history。 It covered the passive
land with its lives of countless people like Ziemianitch and its
handful of agitators like this Haldin murdering foolishly。
It was a sort of sacred inertia。 Razumov felt a respect for it。
A voice seemed to cry within him； 〃Don't touch it。〃 It was a
guarantee of duration； of safety； while the travail of maturing
destiny went ona work not of revolutions with their passionate
levity of action and their shifting impulsesbut of peace。 What
it needed was not the conflicting aspirations of a people； but a
will strong and one： it wanted not the babble of many voices； but
a manstrong and one！
Razumov stood on the point of conversion。 He was fascinated by
its approach； by its overpowering logic。 For a train of thought
is never false。 The falsehood lies deep in the necessities of
existence； in secret fears and half…formed ambitions； in the
secret confidence combined with a secret mistrust of ourselves；
in the love of hope and the dread of uncertain days。
In Russia； the land of spectral ideas and disembodied
aspirations； many brave minds have turned away at last from the
vain and endless conflict to the one great historical fact of the
land。 They turned to autocracy for the peace of their patriotic
conscience as a weary unbeliever； touched by grace； turns to the
faith of his fathers for the blessing of spiritual rest。 Like
other Russians before him； Razumov； in conflict with himself；
felt the touch of grace upon his forehead。
〃Haldin means disruption；〃 he thought to himself； beginning to
walk again。 〃What is he with his indign