passion,
love, ambition, hate--hate too indubitably. Love and hate. And to escape
the dangers of existence, to live without fear, was also happiness.
There was nothing else. Absence of fear--looking forward. "Oh! the
miserable lot of humanity!" he exclaimed mentally; and added at once in
his thought, "I ought to be happy enough as far as that goes." But he
was not excited by that assurance. On the contrary, he yawned again as
he had been yawning all day. He was mildly surprised to discover himself
being overtaken by night. The room grew dark swiftly though time had
seemed to stand still. How was it that he had not noticed the passing of
that day? Of course, it was the watch being stopped....

He did not light his lamp, but went over to the bed and threw himself on
it without any hesitation. Lying on his back, he put his hands under his
head and stared upward. After a moment he thought, "I am lying here like
that man. I wonder if he slept while I was struggling with the blizzard
in the streets. No, he did not sleep. But why should I not sleep?" and
he felt the silence of the night press upon all his limbs like a weight.

In the calm of the hard frost outside, the clear-cut strokes of the town
clock counting off midnight penetrated the quietness of his suspended
animation.

Again he began to think. It was twenty-four hours since that man left
his room. Razumov had a distinct feeling that Haldin in the fortress was
sleeping that night. It was a certitude which made him angry because
he did not want to think of Haldin, but he justified it to himself by
physiological and psychological reasons. The fellow had hardly slept for
weeks on his own confession, and now every incertitude was at an end
for him. No doubt he was looking forward to the consummation of his
martyrdom. A man who resigns himself to kill need not go very far for
resignation to die. Haldin slept perhaps more soundly than General T---,
whose task--weary work too--was not done, and over whose head hung the
sword of revolutionary vengeance.

Razumov, remembering the thick-set man with his heavy jowl resting on
the collar of his uniform, the champion of autocracy, who had let no
sign of surprise, incredulity, or joy escape him, but whose goggle eyes
could express a mortal hatred of all rebellion--Razumov moved uneasily
on the bed.

"He suspected me," he thought. "I suppose he must suspect everybody. He
would be capable of suspecting his own wife, if Haldin h