arlier part is a retrospect, in a narrative form, relating to an
event which took place about a year before.

I must mention that I have lived for a long time in Geneva. A whole
quarter of that town, on account of many Russians residing there,
is called La Petite Russie--Little Russia. I had a rather extensive
connexion in Little Russia at that time. Yet I confess that I have
no comprehension of the Russian character. The illogicality of their
attitude, the arbitrariness of their conclusions, the frequency of the
exceptional, should present no difficulty to a student of many grammars;
but there must be something else in the way, some special human
trait--one of those subtle differences that are beyond the ken of mere
professors. What must remain striking to a teacher of languages is the
Russians' extraordinary love of words. They gather them up; they cherish
them, but they don't hoard them in their breasts; on the contrary, they
are always ready to pour them out by the hour or by the night with an
enthusiasm, a sweeping abundance, with such an aptness of application
sometimes that, as in the case of very accomplished parrots, one can't
defend oneself from the suspicion that they really understand what they
say. There is a generosity in their ardour of speech which removes it as
far as possible from common loquacity; and it is ever too disconnected
to be classed as eloquence.... But I must apologize for this
digression.

It would be idle to inquire why Mr. Razumov has left this record behind
him. It is inconceivable that he should have wished any human eye to see
it. A mysterious impulse of human nature comes into play here. Putting
aside Samuel Pepys, who has forced in this way the door of immortality,
innumerable people, criminals, saints, philosophers, young girls,
statesmen, and simple imbeciles, have kept self-revealing records from
vanity no doubt, but also from other more inscrutable motives. There
must be a wonderful soothing power in mere words since so many men have
used them for self-communion. Being myself a quiet individual I take
it that what all men are really after is some form or perhaps only some
formula of peace. Certainly they are crying loud enough for it at the
present day. What sort of peace Kirylo Sidorovitch Razumov expected
to find in the writing up of his record it passeth my understanding to
guess.

The fact remains that he has written it.

Mr. Razumov was a tall, well-proportioned young m