Everything was gone. His existence was a great cold
blank, something like the enormous plain of the whole of Russia levelled
with snow and fading gradually on all sides into shadows and mists.
He sat down, with swimming head, closed his eyes, and remained like
that, sitting bolt upright on the sofa and perfectly awake for the
rest of the night; till the girl bustling into the outer room with
the samovar thumped with her fist on the door, calling out, "Kirylo
Sidorovitch, please! It is time for you to get up!"
Then, pale like a corpse obeying the dread summons of judgement, Razumov
opened his eyes and got up.
Nobody will be surprised to hear, I suppose, that when the summons came
he went to see Councillor Mikulin. It came that very morning, while,
looking white and shaky, like an invalid just out of bed, he was trying
to shave himself. The envelope was addressed in the little attorney's
handwriting. That envelope contained another, superscribed to Razumov,
in Prince K---'s hand, with the request "Please forward under cover
at once" in a corner. The note inside was an autograph of Councillor
Mikulin. The writer stated candidly that nothing had arisen which needed
clearing up, but nevertheless appointed a meeting with Mr. Razumov at a
certain address in town which seemed to be that of an oculist.
Pages:
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386