under western eyes-第6部分

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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。　Under　the　sumptuous

immensity　of　the　sky；　the　snow　covered　the　endless　forests；

the　frozen　rivers；　the　plains　of　an　immense　country；　obliterating

the　landmarks；　the　accidents　of　the　ground；　levelling　everything

under　its　uniform　whiteness；　like　a　monstrous　blank　page　awaiting

the　record　of　an　inconceivable　history。　　It　covered　the　passive

land　with　its　lives　of　　countless　people　like　Ziemianitch　and　its

handful　of　agitators　like　this　Haldin　murdering　foolishly。



It　was　a　sort　of　sacred　inertia。　　Razumov　felt　a　respect　for　it。

A　voice　seemed　　　to　cry　within　him；　〃Don't　touch　it。〃　　It　was　a

guarantee　of　duration；　　of　safety；　while　the　travail　of　maturing

destiny　went　ona　work　not　of　revolutions　with　their　passionate

levity　of　action　and　their　shifting　impulsesbut　of　peace。　　What

it　needed　was　not　the　conflicting　aspirations　of　a　people；　but　a

will　strong　and　one：　it　wanted　not　the　babble　of　many　voices；　but

a　manstrong　and　one！



Razumov　stood　on　the　point　of　conversion。　　He　was　fascinated　by

its　approach；　by　its　overpowering　logic。　　For　a　train　of　thought

is　never　false。　　The　falsehood　lies　deep　in　the　necessities　of

existence；　in　secret　fears　and　half…formed　ambitions；　in　the

secret　confidence　combined　with　a　secret　mistrust　of　ourselves；

in　the　love　of　hope　and　the　dread　of　uncertain　days。



In　Russia；　the　land　of　spectral　ideas　and　disembodied

aspirations；　many　brave　minds　have　turned　away　at　last　from　the

vain　and　endless　conflict　to　the　one　great　historical　fact　of　the

land。　　They　turned　to　autocracy　for　the　peace　of　their　patriotic

conscience　as　a　weary　unbeliever；　touched　by　grace；　turns　to　the

faith　of　his　fathers　for　the　blessing　of　spiritual　rest。　　Like

other　Russians　before　him；　Razumov；　in　conflict　with　himself；

felt　the　touch　of　grace　upon　his　forehead。



〃Haldin　means　disruption；〃　he　thought　to　himself；　beginning　to

walk　again。　　〃What　is　he　with　his　indignation；　with　his　talk

of　bondagewith　his　talk　of　God's　justice？　　All　that　means

disruption。　　Better　that　thousands　should　suffer　than　that　a

people　should　become　a　disintegrated　mass；　helpless　like　dust　in

the　wind。　　Obscurantism　is　better　than　the　light　of　incendiary

torches。　　The　seed　germinates　in　the　night。　　Out　of　the　dark　soil

springs　the　perfect　plant。　　But　a　volcanic　eruption　is　sterile；

the　ruin　of　the　fertile　ground。　　And　am　I；　who　love　my

countrywho　have　nothing　but　that　to　love　and　put　my　faith

inam　I　to　have　my　future；　perhaps　my　usefulness；　ruined　by　this

sanguinary　fanatic？〃



The　grace　entered　into　Razumov。　　He　believed　now　in　the　man　who

would　come　at　the　appointed　time。



What　is　a　throne？　　A　few　pieces　of　wood　upholstered　in　velvet。

But　a　throne　is　a　seat　of　power　too。　　The　form　of　government　is

the　shape　of　a　toolan　instrument。　　But　twenty　thousand　bladders

inflated　by　the　noblest　sentiments　and　jostling　against　each

other　in　the　air　are　a　miserable　incumbrance　of　space；　holding　no

power；　possessing　no　will；　having　nothing　to　give。



He　went　on　thus；　heedless　of　the　way；　holding　a　discourse　with

himself　with　extraordinary　abundance　and　facility。　　Generally　his

phrases　came　to　him　slowly；　after　a　conscious　and　painstaking

wooing。　　Some　superior　power　had　inspired　him　with　a　flow　of

masterly　argument　as　certain　converted　sinners　become

overwhelmingly　loquacious。



He　felt　an　austere　exultation。



〃What　are　the　luridly　smoky　lucubrations　of　that　fellow　to　the

clear　grasp　of　my　intellect？〃　he　thought。　　〃Is　not　this　my

country？　　Have　I　not　got　forty　million　brothers？〃　he　asked

himself；　unanswerably　victorious　in　the　silence　of　his　breast。

And　the　fearful　thrashing　he　had　given　the　inanimate　Ziemianitch

seemed　to　him　a　sign　of　intimate　union；　a　pathetically　severe

necessity　of　brotherly　love。　　〃No！　　If　I　must　suffer　let　me　at

least　suffer　for　my　convictions；　not　for　a　crime　my　reason　my

cool　superior　reasonrejects。〃



He　ceased　to　think　for　a　moment。　　The　silence　in　his　breast　was

complete。　　But　he　felt　a　suspicious　uneasiness；　such　as　we　may

experience　when　we　enter　an　unlighted　strange　placethe

irrational　feeling　that　something　may　jump　upon　us　in　the

darkthe　absurd　dread　of　the　unseen。



Of　course　he　was　far　from　being　a　moss…grown　reactionary。

Everything　was　not　for　the　best。　　Despotic　bureaucracy。　。　。

abuses。　。　。corruption。　。　。and　so　on。　　Capable　men　were　wanted。

Enlightened　intelligences。　　Devoted　hearts。　　But　absolute　power

should　be　preserved　the　tool　ready　for　the　manfor　the　great

autocrat　of　the　future。　　Razumov　believed　in　him。　　The　logic　of

history　made　him　unavoidable。　　The　state　of　the　people　demanded

him；　　〃What　else？〃　he　asked　himself　ardently；　〃could　move　all　that

mass　in　one　direction？　　Nothing　could。　　Nothing　but　a　single　will。〃



He　was　persuaded　that　he　was　sacrificing　his　personal　longings　of

liberalismrejecting　the　attractive　error　for　the　stern　Russian

truth。　　〃That's　patriotism；〃　he　observed　mentally；　and　added；

〃There's　no　stopping　midway　on　that　road；〃　and　then　remarked　to

himself；　〃I　am　not　a　coward。〃



And　again　there　was　a　dead　silence　in　Razumov's　breast。　　He

walked　with　lowered　head；　making　room　for　no　one。　　He　walked

slowly　and　his　thoughts　returning　spoke　within　him　with　solemn

slowness。



〃What　is　this　Haldin？　　And　what　am　I？　Only　two　grains　of　sand。

But　a　great　mountain　is　made　up　of　just　such　insignificant

grains。　　And　the　death　of　a　man　or　of　many　men　is　an

insignificant　thing。　Yet　we　combat　a　contagious　pestilence。

Do　I　want　his　death？　　No！　　I　would　save　him　if　I　couldbut　no

one　can　do　thathe　is　the　withered　member　which　must　be　cut　off。

If　I　must　perish　through　him；　let　me　at　least　not　perish　with

him；　and　associated　against　my　will　with　his　sombre　folly　that

understands　nothing　either　of　men　or　things。　　Why　should　I　leave

a　false　memory？〃



It　passed　through　his　mind　that　there　was　no　one　in