sickly lame fellow whom he knew so well by
sight staggered out into the snow embracing a large shutter.

Nothing would change. There was the familiar gateway yawning black with
feeble glimmers marking the arches of the different staircases.

The sense of life's continuity depended on trifling bodily impressions.
The trivialities of daily existence were an armour for the soul. And
this thought reinforced the inward quietness of Razumov as he began to
climb the stairs familiar to his feet in the dark, with his hand on the
familiar clammy banister. The exceptional could not prevail against the
material contacts which make one day resemble another. To-morrow would
be like yesterday.

It was only on the stage that the unusual was outwardly acknowledged.

"I suppose," thought Razumov, "that if I had made up my mind to blow out
my brains on the landing I would be going up these stairs as quietly
as I am doing it now. What's a man to do? What must be must be.
Extraordinary things do happen. But when they have happened they are
done with. Thus, too, when the mind is made up. That question is done
with. And the daily concerns, the familiarities of our thought swallow
it up--and the life goes on as before with its mysterious and secret
sides quite out of sight, as they should be. Life is a public thing."

Razumov unlocked his door and took the key out; entered very quietly and
bolted the door behind him carefully.

He thought, "He hears me," and after bolting the door he stood still
holding his breath. There was not a sound. He crossed the bare outer
room, stepping deliberately in the darkness. Entering the other, he felt
all over his table for the matchbox. The silence, but for the groping of
his hand, was profound. Could the fellow be sleeping so soundly?

He struck a light and looked at the bed. Haldin was lying on his back as
before, only both his hands were under his head. His eyes were open. He
stared at the ceiling.

Razumov held the match up. He saw the clear-cut features, the firm
chin, the white forehead and the topknot of fair hair against the white
pillow. There he was, lying flat on his back. Razumov thought suddenly,
"I have walked over his chest."

He continued to stare till the match burnt itself out; then struck
another and lit the lamp in silence without looking towards the bed any
more. He had turned his back on it and was hanging his coat on a peg
when he heard Haldin sigh profoundly, then ask in a ti