UNDER WESTERN EYES. Джозеф Конрад

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СКАЧАТЬ that the lady companion had scuttled out of the room.

      "In matters of politics I am a supernaturalist." Madame de S— broke the silence harshly.

      Peter Ivanovitch moved away from the window and struck Razumov lightly on the shoulder. This was a signal for leaving, but at the same time he addressed Madame de S— in a peculiar reminding tone—-

      "Eleanor!"

      Whatever it meant, she did not seem to hear him. She leaned back in the corner of the sofa like a wooden figure. The immovable peevishness of the face, framed in the limp, rusty lace, had a character of cruelty.

      "As to extirpating," she croaked at the attentive Razumov, "there is only one class in Russia which must be extirpated. Only one. And that class consists of only one family. You understand me? That one family must be extirpated."

      Her rigidity was frightful, like the rigor of a corpse galvanized into harsh speech and glittering stare by the force of murderous hate. The sight fascinated Razumov—yet he felt more self-possessed than at any other time since he had entered this weirdly bare room. He was interested. But the great feminist by his side again uttered his appeal—

      "Eleanor!"

      She disregarded it. Her carmine lips vaticinated with an extraordinary rapidity. The liberating spirit would use arms before which rivers would part like Jordan, and ramparts fall down like the walls of Jericho. The deliverance from bondage would be effected by plagues and by signs, by wonders and by war. The women....

      "Eleanor!"

      She ceased; she had heard him at last. She pressed her hand to her forehead.

      "What is it? Ah yes! That girl—the sister of...."

      It was Miss Haldin that she meant. That young girl and her mother had been leading a very retired life. They were provincial ladies—were they not? The mother had been very beautiful—traces were left yet. Peter Ivanovitch, when he called there for the first time, was greatly struck....But the cold way they received him was really surprising.

      "He is one of our national glories," Madams de S— cried out, with sudden vehemence. "All the world listens to him."

      "I don't know these ladies," said Razumov loudly rising from his chair.

      "What are you saying, Kirylo Sidorovitch? I understand that she was talking to you here, in the garden, the other day."

      "Yes, in the garden," said Razumov gloomily. Then, with an effort, "She made herself known to me."

      "And then ran away from us all," Madame de S— continued, with ghastly vivacity. "After coming to the very door! What a peculiar proceeding! Well, I have been a shy little provincial girl at one time. Yes, Razumov" (she fell into this familiarity intentionally, with an appalling grimace of graciousness. Razumov gave a perceptible start), "yes, that's my origin. A simple provincial family.

      "You are a marvel," Peter Ivanovich uttered.

      But it was to Razumov that she gave her death's-head smile. Her tone was quite imperious.

      "You must bring the wild young thing here. She is wanted. I reckon upon your success—mind!"

      "She is not a wild young thing," muttered Razumov, in a surly voice.

      "Well, then—that's all the same. She may be one of these young conceited democrats. Do you know what I think? I think she is very much like you in character. There is a smouldering fire of scorn in you. You are darkly self-sufficient, but I can see your very soul."

      Her shiny eyes had a dry, intense stare, which, missing Razumov, gave him an absurd notion that she was looking at something which was visible to her behind him. He cursed himself for an impressionable fool, and asked with forced calmness—

      "What is it you see? Anything resembling me?"

      She moved her rigidly set face from left to right, negatively.

      "Some sort of phantom in my image?" pursued Razumov slowly. "For, I suppose, a soul when it is seen is just that. A vain thing. There are phantoms of the living as well as of the dead."

      The tenseness of Madame de S—'s stare had relaxed, and now she looked at Razumov in a silence that became disconcerting.

      "I myself have had an experience," he stammered out, as if compelled. "I've seen a phantom once." The unnaturally red lips moved to frame a question harshly.

      "Of a dead person?"

      "No. Living."

      "A friend?"

      "No."

      "An enemy?"

      "I hated him."

      "Ah! It was not a woman, then?"

      "A woman!" repeated Razumov, his eyes looking straight into the eyes of Madame de S—. "Why should it have been a woman? And why this conclusion? Why should I not have been able to hate a woman?"

      As a matter of fact, the idea of hating a woman was new to him. At that moment he hated Madame de S—. But it was not exactly hate. It was more like the abhorrence that may be caused by a wooden or plaster figure of a repulsive kind. She moved no more than if she were such a figure; even her eyes, whose unwinking stare plunged into his own, though shining, were lifeless, as though they were as artificial as her teeth. For the first time Razumov became aware of a faint perfume, but faint as it was it nauseated him exceedingly. Again Peter Ivanovitch tapped him slightly on the shoulder. Thereupon he bowed, and was about to turn away when he received the unexpected favour of a bony, inanimate hand extended to him, with the two words in hoarse French—

      "Au revoir!"

      He bowed over the skeleton hand and left the room, escorted by the great man, who made him go out first. The voice from the sofa cried after them—

      "You remain here, Pierre."

      "Certainly, ma chere amie."

      But he left the room with Razumov, shutting the door behind him. The landing was prolonged into a bare corridor, right and left, desolate perspectives of white and gold decoration without a strip of carpet. The very light, pouring through a large window at the end, seemed dusty; and a solitary speck reposing on the balustrade of white marble—the silk top-hat of the great feminist—asserted itself extremely, black and glossy in all that crude whiteness.

      Peter Ivanovitch escorted the visitor without opening his lips. Even when they had reached the head of the stairs Peter Ivanovitch did not break the silence. Razumov's impulse to continue down the flight and out of the house without as much as a nod abandoned him suddenly. He stopped on the first step and leaned his back against the wall. Below him the great hall with its chequered floor of black and white seemed absurdly large and like some public place where a great power of resonance awaits the provocation of footfalls and voices. As if afraid of awakening the loud echoes of that empty house, Razumov adopted a low tone.

      "I really have no mind to turn into a dilettante spiritualist."

      Peter Ivanovitch shook his head slightly, very serious.

      "Or spend my time СКАЧАТЬ