ted 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 in spiritual ecstasies or sublime meditations upon the
gospel of feminism," continued Razumov. "I made my way here for my share
of action--action, most respected Peter Ivanovitch! It was not the great
European writer who attracted me, here, to this odious town of liberty.
It was somebody much greater. It was the idea of the chief which
attracted me. There are starving young men in Russia who believe in
you so much that it seems the only thing that keeps them alive in their
misery. Think of that, Peter Ivanovitch! No! But only think of that!"

The great man, thus entreated, perfectly motionless and silent, was the
very image of patient, placid respectability.

"Of course I don't speak of the people. They are brutes," added Razumov,
in the same subdued but forcible tone. At this, a protesting murmur
issued from the "heroic fugitive's" beard. A murmur of authority.

"Say--children."

"No! Brutes!" Razumov insisted bluntly.

"But they are sound, they are innocent," the great man pleaded in a
whisper.

"As far as that goes, a brute is sound enough." R