“You came to vouch for his identity?” inquired Razumov.
“Yes. Something of the kind. Fifteen years of a life like his make changes in a man. Lonely, like a crow in a strange country. When I think of Yakovlitch before he went to America—”
The softness of the low tone caused Razumov to glance at her sideways. She sighed; her black eyes were looking away; she had plunged the fingers of her right hand deep into the mass of nearly white hair, and stirred them there absently. When she withdrew her hand the little hat perched on the top of her head remained slightly tilted, with a queer inquisitive effect, contrasting strongly with the reminiscent murmur that escaped her.
“We were not in our first youth even then. But a man is a child always.”
Razumov thought suddenly, “They have been living together.” Then aloud—
“Why didn’t you follow him to America?” he asked point-blank.
She looked up at him with a perturbed air.
“Don’t you remember what was going on fifteen years ago? It was a time of activity. The Revolution has its history by this time. You are in it and yet you don’t seem to know it. Yakovlitch went away then on a mission; I went back to Russia. It had to be so. Afterwards there was nothing for him to come back to.”
“Ah! indeed,” muttered Razumov, with affected surprise. “Nothing!”
“What are you trying to insinuate” she exclaimed quickly. “Well, and what then if he did get discouraged a little. …”
“He looks like a Yankee, with that goatee hanging from his chin. A regular Uncle Sam,” growled Razumov. “Well, and you? You who went to Russia? You did not get discouraged.”
“Never mind. Yakovlitch is a man who cannot be doubted. He, at any rate, is the right sort.”
Her black, penetrating gaze remained fixed upon Razumov while she spoke, and for a moment afterwards.
“Pardon me,” Razumov inquired coldly, “but does it mean that you, for instance, think that I am not the right sort?”
She made no protest, gave no sign of having heard the question; she continued looking at him in a manner which he judged not to be absolutely unfriendly. In Zurich when he passed through she had taken him under her charge, in a way, and was with him from morning till night during his stay of two days. She took him round to see several people. At first she talked to him a great deal and rather unreservedly, but always avoiding all reference to herself; towards the middle of the second day she fell silent, attending him zealously as before, and even seeing him off at the railway station, where she pressed his hand firmly through the lowered carriage window, and, stepping back without a word, waited till the train moved. He had noticed that she was treated with quiet regard. He knew nothing of her parentage, nothing of her private history or political record; he judged her from his own private point of view, as being a distinct danger in his path. “Judged” is not perhaps the right word. It was more of a feeling, the summing up of slight impressions aided by the discovery that he could not despise her as he despised all the others. He had not expected to see her again so soon.
No, decidedly; her expression was not unfriendly. Yet he perceived an acceleration in the beat of his heart. The conversation could not be abandoned at that point. He went on in accents of scrupulous inquiry—
“Is it perhaps because I don’t seem to accept blindly every development of the general doctrine—such for instance as the feminism of our great Peter Ivanovitch? If that is what makes me suspect, then I can only say I would scorn to be a slave even to an idea.”
She had been looking at him all the time, not as a listener looks at one, but as if the words he chose to say were only of secondary interest. When he finished she slipped her hand, by a sudden and decided movement, under his arm and impelled him gently towards the gate of the grounds. He felt her firmness and obeyed the impulsion at once, just as the other two men had, a moment before, obeyed unquestioningly the wave of her hand.
They made a few steps like this.
“No, Razumov, your ideas are probably all right,” she said. “You may be valuable—very valuable. What’s the matter with you is that you don’t like us.”
She released him. He met her with a frosty smile.
“Am I expected then to have love as well as convictions?”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“You know very well what I mean. People have been thinking you not quite wholehearted. I have heard that opinion from one side and another. But I have understood you at the end of the first day. …”
Razumov interrupted her, speaking steadily.
“I assure you that your perspicacity is at fault here.”
“What phrases he uses!” she exclaimed parenthetically. “Ah! Kirylo Sidorovitch, you like other men are fastidious, full of self-love and afraid of trifles. Moreover, you had no training. What you want is to be taken in hand by some woman. I am sorry I am not staying here a few days. I am going back to Zurich tomorrow, and shall take Yakovlitch with me most likely.”
This information relieved Razumov.
“I am sorry too,” he said. “But, all the same, I don’t think you understand me.”
He breathed more freely; she did not protest, but asked, “And how did you get on with Peter Ivanovitch? You have seen a good deal of each other. How is it between you two?”
Not knowing what answer to make, the young man inclined his head slowly.
Her lips had been parted in expectation. She pressed them together, and seemed to reflect.
“That’s all right.”
This had a sound of finality, but she did not leave him. It was impossible to guess what she had in her
