under western eyes-第5章

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The　reek　of　spirits；　the　greasy　rancid　steam　of　food　got　Razumov

by　the　throat。　　He　struck　a　table　with　his　clenched　hand　and

shouted　violently



〃You　lie。〃



Bleary　unwashed　faces　were　turned　to　his　direction。　A　mild…eyed

ragged　tramp　drinking　tea　at　the　next　table　moved　farther　away。

A　murmur　of　wonder　arose　with　an　undertone　of　uneasiness。　　A

laugh　was　heard　too；　and　an　exclamation；　〃There！　there！〃

jeeringly　soothing。　　The　waiter　looked　all　round　and　announced　to

the　room



〃The　gentleman　won't　believe　that　Ziemianitch　is　drunk。〃



》From　a　distant　corner　a　hoarse　voice　belonging　to　a　horrible；

nondescript；　shaggy　being　with　a　black　face　like　the　muzzle　of　a

bear　grunted　angrily



〃The　cursed　driver　of　thieves。　　What　do　we　want　with　his

gentlemen　here？　　We　are　all　honest　folk　in　this　place。〃



Razumov；　biting　his　lip　till　blood　came　to　keep　himself　from

bursting　into　imprecations；　followed　the　owner　of　the　den；　who；

whispering　〃Come　along；　little　father；〃　led　him　into　a　tiny　hole

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。　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