God only knows where his
noiseless feet took him to that night, here and there, and back again
without pause or rest. Of one place, at least, where they did lead
him, we heard afterwards; and, in the morning, the driver of the first
south-shore tramcar, clanging his bell desperately, saw a bedraggled,
soaked man without a hat, and walking in the roadway unsteadily with his
head down, step right in front of his car, and go under.
When they picked him up, with two broken limbs and a crushed side,
Razumov had not lost consciousness. It was as though he had tumbled,
smashing himself, into a world of mutes. Silent men, moving unheard,
lifted him up, laid him on the sidewalk, gesticulating and grimacing
round him their alarm, horror, and compassion. A red face with
moustaches stooped close over him, lips moving, eyes rolling. Razumov
tried hard to understand the reason of this dumb show. To those who
stood around him, the features of that stranger, so grievously hurt,
seemed composed in meditation. Afterwards his eyes sent out at them
a look of fear and closed slowly. They stared at him. Razumov made an
effort to remember some French words.
"_Je suis sourd_," he had time to utter feebly, before he fainted.
"He is deaf," they exclaimed to each other. "That's why he did not hear
the car.
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