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.
Pages:
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292