Razumov shrugged his shoulders and stared. “What a tirade!” he thought. The silence and immobility of Councillor Mikulin impressed him. The bearded bureaucrat sat at his post, mysteriously self-possessed like an idol with dim, unreadable eyes. Razumov’s voice changed involuntarily.
“If you were to ask me where is the necessity of my hate for such as Haldin, I would answer you—there is nothing sentimental in it. I did not hate him because he had committed the crime of murder. Abhorrence is not hate. I hated him simply because I am sane. It is in that character that he outraged me. His death …”
Razumov felt his voice growing thick in his throat. The dimness of Councillor Mikulin’s eyes seemed to spread all over his face and made it indistinct to Razumov’s sight. He tried to disregard these phenomena.
“Indeed,” he pursued, pronouncing each word carefully, “what is his death to me? If he were lying here on the floor I could walk over his breast. … The fellow is a mere phantom. …”
Razumov’s voice died out very much against his will. Mikulin behind the table did not allow himself the slightest movement. The silence lasted for some little time before Razumov could go on again.
“He went about talking of me. Those intellectual fellows sit in each other’s rooms and get drunk on foreign ideas in the same way young Guards’ officers treat each other with foreign wines. Merest debauchery. … Upon my Word,”—Razumov, enraged by a sudden recollection of Ziemianitch, lowered his voice forcibly—“upon my word, we Russians are a drunken lot. Intoxication of some sort we must have: to get ourselves wild with sorrow or maudlin with resignation; to lie inert like a log or set fire to the house. What is a sober man to do, I should like to know? To cut oneself entirely from one’s kind is impossible. To live in a desert one must be a saint. But if a drunken man runs out of the grog-shop, falls on your neck and kisses you on both cheeks because something about your appearance has taken his fancy, what then—kindly tell me? You may break, perhaps, a cudgel on his back and yet not succeed in beating him off. …”
Councillor Mikulin raised his hand and passed it down his face deliberately.
“That’s … of course,” he said in an undertone.
The quiet gravity of that gesture made Razumov pause. It was so unexpected, too. What did it mean? It had an alarming aloofness. Razumov remembered his intention of making him show his hand.
“I have said all this to Prince K⸺,” he began with assumed indifference, but lost it on seeing Councillor Mikulin’s slow nod of assent. “You know it? You’ve heard. … Then why should I be called here to be told of Haldin’s execution? Did you want to confront me with his silence now that the man is dead? What is his silence to me! This is incomprehensible. You want in some way to shake my moral balance.”
“No. Not that,” murmured Councillor Mikulin, just audibly. “The service you have rendered is appreciated. …”
“Is it?” interrupted Razumov ironically.
“… and your position too.” Councillor Mikulin did not raise his voice. “But only think! You fall into Prince K⸺’s study as if from the sky with your startling information. … You are studying yet, Mr. Razumov, but we are serving already—don’t forget that. … And naturally some curiosity was bound to. …”
Councillor Mikulin looked down his beard. Razumov’s lips trembled.
“An occurrence of that sort marks a man,” the homely murmur went on. “I admit I was curious to see you. General T⸺ thought it would be useful, too. … Don’t think I am incapable of understanding your sentiments. When I was young like you I studied. …”
“Yes—you wished to see me,” said Razumov in a tone of profound distaste. “Naturally you have the right—I mean the power. It all amounts to the same thing. But it is perfectly useless, if you were to look at me and listen to me for a year. I begin to think there is something about me which people don’t seem able to make out. It’s unfortunate. I imagine, however, that Prince K⸺ understands. He seemed to.”
Councillor Mikulin moved slightly and spoke.
“Prince K⸺ is aware of everything that is being done, and I don’t mind informing you that he approved my intention of becoming personally acquainted with you.”
Razumov concealed an immense disappointment under the accents of railing surprise.
“So he is curious too! … Well—after all, Prince K⸺ knows me very little. It is really very unfortunate for me, but—it is not exactly my fault.”
Councillor Mikulin raised a hasty deprecatory hand and inclined his head slightly over his shoulder.
“Now, Mr. Razumov—is it necessary to take it in that way? Everybody I am sure can. …”
He glanced rapidly down his beard, and when he looked up again there was for a moment an interested expression in his misty gaze. Razumov discouraged it with a cold, repellent smile.
“No. That’s of no importance to be sure—except that in respect of all this curiosity being aroused by a very simple matter. … What is to be done with it? It is unappeasable. I mean to say there is nothing to appease it with. I happen to have been born a Russian with patriotic instincts—whether inherited or not I am not in a position to say.”
Razumov spoke consciously with elaborate steadiness.
“Yes, patriotic instincts developed by a faculty of independent thinking—of detached thinking. In that respect I am more free than any social democratic revolution could make me. It is more than probable that I don’t think exactly as you are thinking. Indeed, how could it be? You would think most likely at this moment that I am elaborately lying to cover
