Under Western Eyes

'Tell me: is it true that on the very morning of the deed you actually attended the lectures at the University?'

An appreciable fraction of a second elapsed before the real import of the question reached him, like a bullet which strikes some time after the flash of the fired shot. Luckily his disengaged hand was ready to grip a bar of the gate. He held it with a terrible force, but his presence of mind was gone. He could make only a sort of gurgling, grumpy sound.

'Come, Kirylo Sidorovitch!' she urged him. 'I know you are not a boastful man. That one must say for you. You are a silent man. Too silent, perhaps. You are feeding on some bitterness of your own. You are not an enthusiast. You are, perhaps, all the stronger for that. But you might tell me. One would like to understand you a little more. I was so immensely struck.... Have you really done it?'

He got his voice back. The shot had missed him. It had been fired at random, altogether, more like a signal for coming to close quarters. It was to be a plain struggle for self-preservation. And she was a dangerous adversary too. But he was ready for battle; he was so ready that when he turned towards her not a muscle of his face moved.

'Certainly,' he said, without animation, secretly strung up but perfectly sure of himself. 'Lectures—certainly, But what makes you ask?'

It was she who was animated.

'I had it in a letter, written by a young man in Petersburg; one of us, of course. You were seen—you were observed with your notebook, impassible, taking notes....'

He enveloped her with his fixed stare.

'What of that?'

'I call such coolness superb—that's all. It is a proof of uncommon strength of character. The young man writes that nobody could have guessed from your face and manner the part you had played only some two hours before— the great, momentous, glorious part....'

'Oh no. Nobody could have guessed,' assented Razumov gravely, 'because, don't you see, nobody at that time....'

'Yes, yes. But all the same you are a man of exceptional fortitude, it seems. You looked exactly as usual. It was remembered afterwards with wonder....'

'It cost me no effort,' Razumov declared, with the same staring gravity.

'Then it's almost more wonderful still!' she exclaimed, and fell silent while Razumov asked himself whether he had not said there something utterly unnecessary—or even worse.

She raised her head eagerly.

'Your intention was to stay in Russia? You had planned....'

'No,' interrupted Razumov without haste. 'I had made no plans of any sort.'

'You just simply walked away?' she struck in.

He bowed his head in slow assent. 'Simply—yes.' He had gradually released his hold on the bar of the gate, as though he had acquired the conviction that no random shot could knock him over now. And suddenly he was inspired to add, 'The snow was coming down very thick, you know.'

She had a slight appreciative movement of the head, like an expert in such enterprises, very interested, capable of taking every point professionally. Razumov remembered something he had heard.

'I turned into a narrow side street, you understand,' he went on negligently, and paused as if it were not worth talking about. Then he remembered another detail and dropped it before her, like a disdainful dole to her curiosity.

'I felt inclined to lie down and go to sleep there.'

She clicked her tongue at that symptom, very struck indeed. Then—

'But the notebook! The amazing notebook, man. You don't mean to say you had put it in your pocket beforehand!' she cried.

Razumov gave a start. It might have been a sign of impatience.

'I went home. Straight home to my rooms,' he said distinctly.

'The coolness of the man! You dared?'

'Why not? I assure you I was perfectly calm. Ha! Calmer than I am now perhaps.'

'I like you much better as you are now than when you indulge that bitter vein of yours, Razumov. And nobody in the house saw you return—eh? That might have appeared queer.'

'No one,' Razumov said firmly. 'Dvornik, landlady, girl, all out of the way. I went up like a shadow. It was a murky morning. The stairs were dark. I glided up like a phantom. Fate? Luck? What do you think?'

'I just see it!' The eyes of the woman revolutionist snapped darkly. 'Well—and then you considered....'

Razumov had it all ready in his head.

'No. I looked at my watch, since you want to know. There was just time. I took that notebook, and ran down the stairs on tiptoe. Have you ever listened to the pit-pat of a man running round and round the shaft of a deep staircase? They have a gaslight at the bottom burning night and day. I suppose it's gleaming down there now.... The sound dies out—the flame winks....'

He noticed the vacillation of surprise passing over the steady curiosity of the black eyes fastened on his face as if the woman revolutionist received the sound of his voice into her pupils instead of her ears. He checked himself, passed his hand over his forehead, confused, like a man who has been dreaming aloud.

'Where could a student be running if not to his lectures in the morning? At night it's another matter. I did not