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of a place behind the wooden counter； whence proceeded a sound of
splashing。 A wet and bedraggled creature； a sort of sexless
and shivering scarecrow； washed glasses in there； bending over a
wooden tub by the light of a tallow dip。
〃Yes； little father；〃 the man in the long caftan said
plaintively。 He had a brown； cunning little face； a thin greyish
beard。 Trying to light a tin lantern he hugged it to his breast
and talked garrulously the while。
He would show Ziemianitch to the gentleman to prove there were no
lies told。 And he would show him drunk。 His woman； it seems；
ran away from him last night。 〃Such a hag she was！ Thin！
Pfui！〃 He spat。 They were always running away from that driver
of the deviland he sixty years old too； could never get used to
it。 But each heart knows sorrow after its own kind and
Ziemianitch was a born fool all his days。 And then he would fly
to the bottle。 〃'Who could bear life in our land without the
bottle？' he says。 A proper Russian manthe little pig。 。 。 。
Be pleased to follow me。〃
Razumov crossed a quadrangle of deep snow enclosed between high
walls with innumerable windows。 Here and there a dim yellow
light hung within the four…square mass of darkness。 The house
was an enormous slum； a hive of human vermin； a monumental abode
of misery towering on the verge of starvation and despair。
In a corner the ground sloped sharply down； and Razumov followed
the light of the lantern through a small doorway into a long
cavernous place like a neglected subterranean byre。 Deep within；
three shaggy little horses tied up to rings hung their heads
together； motionless and shadowy in the dim light of the lantern。
It must have been the famous team of Haldin's escape。 Razumov
peered fearfully into the gloom。 His guide pawed in the straw
with his foot。
〃Here he is。 Ah！ the little pigeon。 A true Russian man。
'No heavy hearts for me；' he says。 'Bring out the bottle and
take your ugly mug out of my sight。' Ha！ ha！ ha！ That's the
fellow he is。〃
He held the lantern over a prone form of a man； apparently fully
dressed for outdoors。 His head was lost in a pointed cloth hood。
On the other side of a heap of straw protruded a pair of feet in
monstrous thick boots。
〃Always ready to drive；〃 commented the keeper of the
eating…house。 〃A proper Russian driver that。 Saint or devil；
night or day is all one to Ziemianitch when his heart is free
from sorrow。 'I don't ask who you are； but where you want to
go；' he says。 He would drive Satan himself to his own abode and
come back chirruping to his horses。 Many a one he has driven who
is clanking his chains in the Nertchinsk mines by this time。〃
Razumov shuddered。
〃Call him； wake him up；〃 he faltered out。
The other set down his light； stepped back and launched a kick at
the prostrate sleeper。 The man shook at the impact but did not
move。 At the third kick he grunted but remained inert as before。
The eating…house keeper desisted and fetched a deep sigh。
〃You see for yourself how it is。 We have done what we can for
you。〃
He picked up the lantern。 The intense black spokes of shadow
swung about in the circle of light。 A terrible furythe blind
rage of self…preservationpossessed Razumov。
〃Ah！ The vile beast；〃 he bellowed out in an unearthly tone
which made the lantern jump and tremble！ 〃I shall wake you！
Give me 。 。 。 Give me 。 。 。〃
He looked round wildly； seized the handle of a stablefork and
rushing forward struck at the prostrate body with
inarticulate cries。 After a time his cries ceased； and the rain
of blows fell in the stillness and shadows of the cellar…like
stable。 Razumov belaboured Ziemianitch with an insatiable fury；
in great volleys of sounding thwacks。 Except for the violent
movements of Razumov nothing stirred； neither the beaten man nor
the spoke…like shadows on the walls。 And only the sound of blows
was heard。 It was a weird scene。
Suddenly there was a sharp crack。 The stick broke and half of it
flew far away into the gloom beyond the light。 At the same time
Ziemianitch sat up。 At this Razumov became as motionless as the
man with the lanternonly his breast heaved for air as if ready
to burst。
Some dull sensation of pain must have penetrated at last the
consoling night of drunkenness enwrapping the 〃bright Russian
soul〃 of Haldin's enthusiastic praise。 But Ziemianitch evidently
saw nothing。 His eyeballs blinked all white in the light once；
twicethen the gleam went out。 For a moment he sat in the straw
with closed eyes with a strange air of weary meditation； then
fell over slowly on his side without making the slightest sound。
Only the straw rustled a little。 Razumov stared wildly； fighting
for his breath。 After a second or two he heard a light snore。
He flung from him the piece of stick remaining in his grasp； and
went off with great hasty strides without looking back once。
After going heedlessly for some fifty yards along the street he
walked into a snowdrift and was up to his knees before he stopped。
This recalled him to himself； and glancing about he discovered he
had been going in the wrong direction。 He retraced his steps； but
now at a more moderate pace。 When passing before the house he had
just left he flourished his fist at the sombre refuge of
misery and crime rearing its sinister bulk on the white ground。
It had an air of brooding。 He let his arm fall by his
sidediscouraged。
Ziemianitch's passionate surrender to sorrow and consolation had
baffled him。 That was the people。 A true Russian man！ Razumov
was glad he had beaten that brutethe 〃bright soul〃 of the
other。 Here they were： the people and the enthusiast。
Between the two he was done for。 Between the drunkenness of the
peasant incapable of action and the dream…intoxication of the
idealist incapable of perceiving the reason of things； and the
true character of men。 It was a sort of terrible childishness。
But children had their masters。 〃Ah！ the stick； the stick； the
stern hand；〃 thought Razumov； longing for power to hurt and
destroy。
He was glad he had thrashed that brute。 The physical exertion
had left his body in a comfortable glow。 His mental agitation
too was clarified as if all the feverishness had gone out of him
in a fit of outward violence。 Together with the persisting sense
of terrible danger he was conscious now of a tranquil；
unquenchable hate。
He walked slower and slower。 And indeed； considering the guest
he had in his rooms； it was no wonder he lingered on the way。 It
was like harbouring a pestilential disease that would not perhaps
take your life； but would take from you all that made life worth
living a subtle pest that would convert earth into a hell。
What was he doing now？ Lying on the bed as if dead； with the
back of his hands over his eyes？ Razumov had a morbidly vivid
vision of Haldin on his bedthe white pillow hollowed by the
head； the legs in long boots； the upturned feet。 And in his
abhorrence he said to himself； 〃I'll kill him when I get home。〃
But he knew very well that that was of no use。 The corpse
hanging round his neck would be nearly as fatal as the living
man。 Nothing short of complete annihilation would do。 And that
was impossible。 What then？ Must one kill oneself to escape this
visitation？
Razumov's despair was too profoundly tinged with hate to accept
that issue。
And yet it was despairnothing lessat the thought of having to
live with Haldin for an indefinite number of days in mortal alarm
at every sound。 But perhaps when he heard that this 〃bright
soul〃 of Ziemianitch suffered from a drunken eclipse the fellow
would take his infernal resignation somewhere else。 And that was
not likely on the face of it。
Razumov thought：〃I am being crushedand I can't even run away。〃
Other men had somewhere a corner of the earthsome little house
in the provinces where they had a right to take their troubles。
A material refuge。 He had nothing。 He had not even a moral
refugethe refuge of confidence。 To whom could he go with this
talein all this great； great land？
Razumov stamped his footand under the soft carpet of snow felt
the hard ground of Russia； inanimate； cold； inert； like a sullen
and tragic mother hiding her face under a winding…sheethis
native soil！his very ownwithout a fireside； without a heart！
He cast his eyes upwards and stood amazed。 The snow had ceased to
fall； and now； as if by a miracle； he saw above his head the
clear black sky of the northern winter； decorated with the
sumptuous fires of the stars。 It was a canopy fit for the
resplendent purity of the snows。
Razumov received an almost physical impression of endless space
and of countless millions。
He responded to it with the readiness of a Russian who is born to
an inheritance of space and numbers。