Under Western Eyes. Джозеф Конрад

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СКАЧАТЬ excitement—no incredulity either. He betrayed no sentiment whatever. Only with a politeness almost deferential suggested that “the bird might have flown while Mr.—Mr. Razumov was running about the streets.”

      Razumov advanced to the middle of the room and said, “The door is locked and I have the key in my pocket.”

      His loathing for the man was intense. It had come upon him so unawares that he felt he had not kept it out of his voice. The General looked up at him thoughtfully, and Razumov grinned.

      All this went over the head of Prince K— seated in a deep armchair, very tired and impatient.

      “A student called Haldin,” said the General thoughtfully.

      Razumov ceased to grin.

      “That is his name,” he said unnecessarily loud. “Victor Victorovitch Haldin—a student.”

      The General shifted his position a little.

      “How is he dressed? Would you have the goodness to tell me?”

      Razumov angrily described Haldin’s clothing in a few jerky words. The General stared all the time, then addressing the Prince—

      “We were not without some indications,” he said in French. “A good woman who was in the street described to us somebody wearing a dress of the sort as the thrower of the second bomb. We have detained her at the Secretariat, and every one in a Tcherkess coat we could lay our hands on has been brought to her to look at. She kept on crossing herself and shaking her head at them. It was exasperating. …” He turned to Razumov, and in Russian, with friendly reproach—

      “Take a chair, Mr. Razumov—do. Why are you standing?”

      Razumov sat down carelessly and looked at the General.

      “This goggle-eyed imbecile understands nothing,” he thought.

      The Prince began to speak loftily.

      “Mr. Razumov is a young man of conspicuous abilities. I have it at heart that his future should not. …”

      “Certainly,” interrupted the General, with a movement of the hand. “Has he any weapons on him, do you think, Mr. Razumov?”

      The General employed a gentle musical voice. Razumov answered with suppressed irritation—

      “No. But my razors are lying about—you understand.”

      The General lowered his head approvingly.

      “Precisely.”

      Then to the Prince, explaining courteously—

      “We want that bird alive. It will be the devil if we can’t make him sing a little before we are done with him.”

      The grave-like silence of the room with its mute clock fell upon the polite modulations of this terrible phrase. The Prince, hidden in the chair, made no sound.

      The General unexpectedly developed a thought.

      “Fidelity to menaced institutions on which depend the safety of a throne and of a people is no child’s play. We know that, mon Prince, and—tenez—” he went on with a sort of flattering harshness, “Mr. Razumov here begins to understand that too.”

      His eyes which he turned upon Razumov seemed to be starting out of his head. This grotesqueness of aspect no longer shocked Razumov. He said with gloomy conviction—

      “Haldin will never speak.”

      “That remains to be seen,” muttered the General.

      “I am certain,” insisted Razumov. “A man like this never speaks. … Do you imagine that I am here from fear?” he added violently. He felt ready to stand by his opinion of Haldin to the last extremity.

      “Certainly not,” protested the General, with great simplicity of tone. “And I don’t mind telling you, Mr. Razumov, that if he had not come with his tale to such a staunch and loyal Russian as you, he would have disappeared like a stone in the water … which would have had a detestable effect,” he added, with a bright, cruel smile under his stony stare. “So you see, there can be no suspicion of any fear here.”

      The Prince intervened, looking at Razumov round the back of the armchair.

      “Nobody doubts the moral soundness of your action. Be at ease in that respect, pray.”

      He turned to the General uneasily.

      “That’s why I am here. You may be surprised why I should. …”

      The General hastened to interrupt.

      “Not at all. Extremely natural. You saw the importance. …”

      “Yes,” broke in the Prince. “And I venture to ask insistently that mine and Mr. Razumov’s intervention should not become public. He is a young man of promise—of remarkable aptitudes.”

      “I haven’t a doubt of it,” murmured the General. “He inspires confidence.”

      “All sorts of pernicious views are so widespread nowadays—they taint such unexpected quarters—that, monstrous as it seems, he might suffer … his studies … his …”

      The General, with his elbows on the desk, took his head between his hands.

      “Yes. Yes. I am thinking it out. … How long is it since you left him at your rooms, Mr. Razumov?”

      Razumov mentioned the hour which nearly corresponded with the time of his distracted flight from the big slum house. He had made up his mind to keep Ziemianitch out of the affair completely. To mention him at all would mean imprisonment for the “bright soul,” perhaps cruel floggings, and in the end a journey to Siberia in chains. Razumov, who had beaten Ziemianitch, felt for him now a vague, remorseful tenderness.

      The General, giving way for the first time to his secret sentiments, exclaimed contemptuously—

      “And you say he came in to make you this confidence like this—for nothing—a propos des bottes.”

      Razumov felt danger in the air. The merciless suspicion of despotism had spoken openly at last. Sudden fear sealed Razumov’s lips. The silence of the room resembled now the silence of a deep dungeon, where time does not count, and a suspect person is sometimes forgotten for ever. But the Prince came to the rescue.

      “Providence itself has led the wretch in a moment of mental aberration to seek Mr. Razumov on the strength of some old, utterly misinterpreted exchange of ideas—some sort of idle speculative conversation—months ago—I am told—and completely forgotten till now by Mr. Razumov.”

      “Mr. Razumov,” queried the General meditatively, after a short silence, “do you often indulge in speculative conversation?”

      “No, Excellency,” answered Razumov, coolly, in a sudden access of self-confidence. “I am a man of deep convictions. Crude opinions are in the air. They are not always worth combating. But even the silent contempt of a serious mind may be misinterpreted by headlong СКАЧАТЬ