He shuddered.  Then the peace of bitter calmness came over him.  It was best to keep this man out of the streets till he could be got rid of with some chance of escaping.  That was the best that could be done.  Razumov, of course, felt the safety of his lonely existence to be permanently endangered.  This evening’s doings could turn up against him at any time as long as this man lived and the present institutions endured.  They appeared to him rational and indestructible at that moment.  They had a force of harmony—­in contrast with the horrible discord of this man’s presence.  He hated the man.  He said quietly—­

“Yes, of course, I will go.  ’You must give me precise directions, and for the rest—­depend on me.”

“Ah!  You are a fellow!  Collected—­cool as a cucumber.  A regular Englishman.  Where did you get your soul from?  There aren’t many like you.  Look here, brother!  Men like me leave no posterity, but their souls are not lost.  No man’s soul is ever lost.  It works for itself—­or else where would be the sense of self-sacrifice, of martyrdom, of conviction, of faith—­the labours of the soul?  What will become of my soul when I die in the way I must die—­soon—­very soon perhaps?  It shall not perish.  Don’t make a mistake, Razumov.  This is not murder—­it is war, war.  My spirit shall go on warring in some Russian body till all falsehood is swept out of the world.  The modern civilization is false, but a new revelation shall come out of Russia.  Ha! you say nothing.  You are a sceptic.  I respect your philosophical scepticism, Razumov, but don’t touch the soul.  The Russian soul that lives in all of us.  It has a future.  It has a mission, I tell you, or else why should I have been moved to do this—­reckless—­like a butcher—­in the middle of all these innocent people—­scattering death—­I!  I!...  I wouldn’t hurt a fly!”

“Not so loud,” warned Razumov harshly.

Haldin sat down abruptly, and leaning his head on his folded arms burst into tears.  He wept for a long time.  The dusk had deepened in the room.  Razumov, motionless in sombre wonder, listened to the sobs.

The other raised his head, got up and with an effort mastered his voice.

“Yes.  Men like me leave no posterity,” he repeated in a subdued tone, “I have a sister though.  She’s with my old mother—­I persuaded them to go abroad this year—­thank God.  Not a bad little girl my sister.  She has the most trustful eyes of any human being that ever walked this earth.  She will marry well, I hope.  She may have children—­sons perhaps.  Look at me.  My father was a Government official in the provinces, He had a little land too.  A simple servant of God—­a true Russian in his way.  His was the soul of obedience.  But I am not like him.  They say I resemble my mother’s eldest brother, an officer.  They shot him in ’28.  Under Nicholas, you know.  Haven’t I told you that this is war, war....  But God of Justice!  This is weary work.”