She began to blink.
“Directly I saw you for the first time I was comforted. You took your hat off to me. You looked as if one could trust you. Oh!”
She shrank before Razumov’s savage snarl of, “I have heard something like this before.”
She was so confounded that she could do nothing but blink for a long time.
“It was your humane manner,” she explained plaintively. “I have been starving for, I won’t say kindness, but just for a little civility, for I don’t know how long. And now you are angry. …”
“But no, on the contrary,” he protested. “I am very glad you trust me. It’s possible that later on I may …”
“Yes, if you were to get ill,” she interrupted eagerly, “or meet some bitter trouble, you would find I am not a useless fool. You have only to let me know. I will come to you. I will indeed. And I will stick to you. Misery and I are old acquaintances—but this life here is worse than starving.”
She paused anxiously, then in a voice for the first time sounding really timid, she added—
“Or if you were engaged in some dangerous work. Sometimes a humble companion—I would not want to know anything. I would follow you with joy. I could carry out orders. I have the courage.”
Razumov looked attentively at the scared round eyes, at the withered, sallow, round cheeks. They were quivering about the corners of the mouth.
“She wants to escape from here,” he thought.
“Suppose I were to tell you that I am engaged in dangerous work?” he uttered slowly.
She pressed the cat to her threadbare bosom with a breathless exclamation. “Ah!” Then not much above a whisper: “Under Peter Ivanovitch?”
“No, not under Peter Ivanovitch.”
He read admiration in her eyes, and made an effort to smile.
“Then—alone?”
He held up his closed hand with the index raised. “Like this finger,” he said.
She was trembling slightly. But it occurred to Razumov that they might have been observed from the house, and he became anxious to be gone. She blinked, raising up to him her puckered face, and seemed to beg mutely to be told something more, to be given a word of encouragement for her starving, grotesque, and pathetic devotion.
“Can we be seen from the house?” asked Razumov confidentially.
She answered, without showing the slightest surprise at the question—
“No, we can’t, on account of this end of the stables.” And she added, with an acuteness which surprised Razumov, “But anybody looking out of an upstairs window would know that you have not passed through the gates yet.”
“Who’s likely to spy out of the window?” queried Razumov. “Peter Ivanovitch?”
She nodded.
“Why should he trouble his head?”
“He expects somebody this afternoon.”
“You know the person?”
“There’s more than one.”
She had lowered her eyelids. Razumov looked at her curiously.
“Of course. You hear everything they say.”
She murmured without any animosity—
“So do the tables and chairs.”
He understood that the bitterness accumulated in the heart of that helpless creature had got into her veins, and, like some subtle poison, had decomposed her fidelity to that hateful pair. It was a great piece of luck for him, he reflected; because women are seldom venal after the manner of men, who can be bought for material considerations. She would be a good ally, though it was not likely that she was allowed to hear as much as the tables and chairs of the Château Borel. That could not be expected. But still. … And, at any rate, she could be made to talk.
When she looked up her eyes met the fixed stare of Razumov, who began to speak at once.
“Well, well, dear … but upon my word, I haven’t the pleasure of knowing your name yet. Isn’t it strange?”
For the first time she made a movement of the shoulders.
“Is it strange? No one is told my name. No one cares. No one talks to me, no one writes to me. My parents don’t even know if I’m alive. I have no use for a name, and I have almost forgotten it myself.”
Razumov murmured gravely, “Yes, but still …”
She went on much slower, with indifference—
“You may call me Tekla, then. My poor Andrei called me so. I was devoted to him. He lived in wretchedness and suffering, and died in misery. That is the lot of all us Russians, nameless Russians. There is nothing else for us, and no hope anywhere, unless …”
“Unless what?”
“Unless all these people with names are done away with,” she finished, blinking and pursing up her lips.
“It will be easier to call you Tekla, as you direct me,” said Razumov, “if you consent to call me Kirylo, when we are talking like this—quietly—only you and me.”
And he said to himself, “Here’s a being who must be terribly afraid of the world, else she would have run away from this situation before.” Then he reflected that the mere fact of leaving the great man abruptly would make her a suspect. She could expect no support or countenance from anyone. This revolutionist was not fit for an independent existence.
She moved with him a few steps, blinking and nursing the cat with a small balancing movement of her arms.
“Yes—only you and I. That’s how I was with my poor Andrei, only he was dying, killed by these official brutes—while you! You are strong. You kill the monsters. You have done a great deed. Peter Ivanovitch himself must consider you. Well—don’t forget me—especially if you are going back to work in Russia. I could follow you, carrying anything that was wanted—at a distance, you know. Or I could watch for hours at the corner of a street if necessary—in wet or snow—yes, I could—all day long. Or I could write for you dangerous documents, lists of names or instructions, so that in case of mischance the handwriting could not compromise you. And you need not be afraid if they were to catch me. I would know how to keep dumb. We women are not so easily daunted by pain.
