At that moment Razumov beheld his own brain
suffering on the rack--a long, pale figure drawn asunder horizontally
with terrific force in the darkness of a vault, whose face he failed to
see. It was as though he had dreamed for an infinitesimal fraction of
time of some dark print of the Inquisition.
It is not to be seriously supposed that Razumov had actually dozed off
and had dreamed in the presence of Councillor Mikulin, of an old print
of the Inquisition. He was indeed extremely exhausted, and he records
a remarkably dream-like experience of anguish at the circumstance
that there was no one whatever near the pale and extended figure. The
solitude of the racked victim was particularly horrible to behold. The
mysterious impossibility to see the face, he also notes, inspired a sort
of terror. All these characteristics of an ugly dream were present. Yet
he is certain that he never lost the consciousness of himself on the
sofa, leaning forward with his hands between his knees and turning his
cap round and round in his fingers. But everything vanished at the voice
of Councillor Mikulin. Razumov felt profoundly grateful for the even
simplicity of its tone.
"Yes. I have listened with interest. I comprehend in a measure your...
But, indeed, you are mistaken in what you.
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