And at
the thought that "He" would most probably read it there, Razumov stopped
short on the stairs for an instant, then went on smiling faintly at his
own emotion. "This is but a shadow," he said to himself, "but the medal
is a solid beginning."
With those ideas of industry in his head the warmth of his room was
agreeable and encouraging. "I shall put in four hours of good work,"
he thought. But no sooner had he closed the door than he was horribly
startled. All black against the usual tall stove of white tiles gleaming
in the dusk, stood a strange figure, wearing a skirted, close-fitting,
brown cloth coat strapped round the waist, in long boots, and with a
little Astrakhan cap on its head. It loomed lithe and martial. Razumov
was utterly confounded. It was only when the figure advancing two paces
asked in an untroubled, grave voice if the outer door was closed that he
regained his power of speech.
"Haldin!... Victor Victorovitch!... Is that you?... Yes. The
outer door is shut all right. But this is indeed unexpected."
Victor Haldin, a student older than most of his contemporaries at the
University, was not one of the industrious set. He was hardly ever seen
at lectures; the authorities had marked him as "restless" and "unsound
"--very bad notes. But he had a great personal prestige with his
comrades and influenced their thoughts.
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