'Nothing. I just asked. Masculine frivolity, if you like.'
'I don't like,' she retorted at once. 'It is not the time to be frivolous. What are you flinging your very heart against? Or, perhaps, you are only playing a part.'
Razumov had felt that woman's observation of him like a physical contact, like a hand resting lightly on his shoulder. At that moment he received the mysterious impression of her having made up her mind for a closer grip. He stiffened himself inwardly to bear it without betraying himself.
'Playing a Part,' he repeated, presenting to her an unmoved profile. 'It must be done very badly since you see through the assumption.'
She watched him, her forehead drawn into perpendicular folds, the thin black eyebrows diverging upwards like the antennae of an insect. He added hardly audibly—
'You are mistaken. I am doing it no more than the rest of us.'
'Who is doing it?' she snapped out.
'Who? Everybody,' he said impatiently. 'You are a materialist, aren't you?'
'Eh! My dear soul, I have outlived all that nonsense.'
'But you must remember the definition of Cabanis: 'Man is a digestive tube.' I imagine now....'
'I spit on him.'
'What? On Cabanis? All right. But you can't ignore the importance of a good digestion. The joy of life—you know the joy of life?—depends on a sound stomach, whereas a bad digestion inclines one to scepticism, breeds black fancies and thoughts of death. These are facts ascertained by physiologists. Well, I assure you that ever since I came over from Russia I have been stuffed with indigestible foreign concoctions of the most nauseating kind— pah!'
'You are joking,' she murmured incredulously. He assented in a detached way.
'Yes. It is all a joke. It's hardly worth while talking to a man like me. Yet for that very reason men have been known to take their own life.'
'On the contrary, I think it is worth while talking to you.'
He kept her in the corner of his eye. She seemed to be thinking out some scathing retort, but ended by only shrugging her shoulders slightly.
'Shallow talk! I suppose one must pardon this weakness in you,' she said, putting a special accent on the last word. There was something anxious in her indulgent conclusion.
Razumov noted the slightest shades in this conversation, which he had not expected, for which he was not prepared. That was it. 'I was not prepared,' he said to himself. 'It has taken me unawares.' It seemed to him that if he only could allow himself to pant openly like a dog for a time this oppression would pass away. 'I shall never be found prepared,' he thought, with despair. He laughed a little, saying as lightly as he could—
'Thanks. I don't ask for mercy.' Then affecting a playful uneasiness, 'But aren't you afraid Peter Ivanovitch might suspect us of plotting something unauthorized together by the gate here?'
'No, I am not afraid. You are quite safe from suspicions while you are with me, my dear young man.' The humorous gleam in her black eyes went out. 'Peter Ivanovitch trusts me,' she went on, quite austerely. 'He takes my advice. I am his right hand, as it were, in certain most important things.... That amuses you what? Do you think I am boasting?'
'God forbid. I was just only saying to myself that Peter Ivanovitch seems to have solved the woman question pretty completely.'
Even as he spoke he reproached himself for his words, for his tone. All day long he had been saying the wrong things. It was folly, worse than folly. It was weakness; it was this disease of perversity overcoming his will. Was this the way to meet speeches which certainly contained the promise of future confidences from that woman who apparently had a great store of secret knowledge and so much influence? Why give her this puzzling impression? But she did not seem inimical. There was no anger in her voice. It was strangely speculative.
'One does not know what to think, Razumov. You must have bitten something bitter in your cradle.' Razumov gave her a sidelong glance.
'H'm! Something bitter? That's an explanation,' he muttered. 'Only it was much later. And don't you think, Sophia Antonovna, that you and I come from the same cradle?'
The woman, whose name he had forced himself at last to pronounce (he had experienced a strong repugnance in letting it pass his lips), the woman revolutionist murmured, after a pause—
'You mean—Russia?'
He disdained even to nod. She seemed softened, her black eyes very still, as though she were pursuing the simile in her thoughts to all its tender associations. But suddenly she knitted her brows in a Mephistophelian frown.
'Yes. Perhaps no wonder, then. Yes. One lies there lapped up in evils, watched over by beings that are worse than ogres, ghouls, and vampires. They must be driven away, destroyed utterly. In regard of that task nothing else matters if men and women are determined and faithful. That's how I came to feel in the end. The great thing is not to quarrel amongst ourselves about all sorts of conventional trifles. Remember that, Razumov.'
Razumov was not listening. He had even lost the sense of being watched in a sort of heavy tranquillity. His uneasiness, his exasperation, his scorn were blunted at last by all these trying hours. It seemed to him that now they were blunted for ever. 'I am a match for them all,' he thought, with a conviction too firm to be exulting. The woman revolutionist had ceased speaking; he was not looking at her; there was no one passing along the road. He almost forgot that he was not alone. He heard her voice again, curt, businesslike, and yet betraying the hesitation which had been the real reason of her prolonged silence.
'I say, Razumov!'
Razumov, whose face was turned away from her, made a grimace like a man who hears a false note.
