ndulging in this sally, Razumov managed very well to conceal the
feeling of anxiety which had come over him. At the same time he was
saying to himself that there could be no earthly reason for anxiety. He
was relieved by the evident sincerity of the protesting voice.

"Heavens!" cried Peter Ivanovitch. "What are you talking about? What
reason can _you_ have to...?"

The great exile flung up his arms as if words had failed him in sober
truth. Razumov was satisfied. Yet he was moved to continue in the same
vein.

"I am talking of the poisonous plants which flourish in the world of
conspirators, like evil mushrooms in a dark cellar."

"You are casting aspersions," remonstrated Peter Ivanovitch, "which as
far as you are concerned--"

"No!" Razumov interrupted without heat. "Indeed, I don't want to cast
aspersions, but it's just as well to have no illusions."

Peter Ivanovitch gave him an inscrutable glance of his dark spectacles,
accompanied by a faint smile.

"The man who says that he has no illusions has at least that one," he
said, in a very friendly tone. "But I see how it is, Kirylo Sidorovitch.
You aim at stoicism."

"Stoicism! That's a pose of the Greeks and the Romans. Let's leave
it to them. We are Russians, that is--children; that is--sincere; that
is--cynical, if you like. But that's not a pose."

A long silence ensued. They strolled slowly under the lime-trees.
Peter Ivanovitch had put his hands behind his back. Razumov felt the
ungravelled ground of the deeply shaded walk damp and as if slippery
under his feet. He asked himself, with uneasiness, if he were saying the
right things. The direction of the conversation ought to have been more
under his control, he reflected. The great man appeared to be reflecting
on his side too. He cleared his throat slightly, and Razumov felt at
once a painful reawakening of scorn and fear.

"I am astonished," began Peter Ivanovitch gently. "Supposing you are
right in your indictment, how can you raise any question of calumny
or gossip, in your case? It is unreasonable. The fact is, Kirylo
Sidorovitch, there is not enough known of you to give hold to gossip or
even calumny. Just now you are a man associated with a great deed, which
had been hoped for, and tried for too, without success. People have
perished for attempting that which you and Haldin have done at last. You
come to us out of Russia, with that prestige. But you cannot deny that
you have not been communicat