harbour along the quay, through a pretty, dull garden, where dull people sat on chairs under the trees, till, his fury abandoning him, he discovered himself in the middle of a long, broad bridge.  He slowed down at once.  To his right, beyond the toy-like jetties, he saw the green slopes framing the Petit Lac in all the marvellous banality of the picturesque made of painted cardboard, with the more distant stretch of water inanimate and shining like a piece of tin.

He turned his head away from that view for the tourists, and walked on slowly, his eyes fixed on the ground.  One or two persons had to get out of his way, and then turned round to give a surprised stare to his profound absorption.  The insistence of the celebrated subversive journalist rankled in his mind strangely.  Write.  Must write!  He!  Write!  A sudden light flashed upon him.  To write was the very thing he had made up his mind to do that day.  He had made up his mind irrevocably to that step and then had forgotten all about it.  That incorrigible tendency to escape from the grip of the situation was fraught with serious danger.  He was ready to despise himself for it.  What was it?  Levity, or deep-seated weakness?  Or an unconscious dread?

“Is it that I am shrinking?  It can’t be!  It’s impossible.  To shrink now would be worse than moral suicide; it would be nothing less than moral damnation,” he thought.  “Is it possible that I have a conventional conscience?”

He rejected that hypothesis with scorn, and, checked on the edge of the pavement, made ready to cross the road and proceed up the wide street facing the head of the bridge; and that for no other reason except that it was there before him.  But at the moment a couple of carriages and a slow-moving cart interposed, and suddenly he turned sharp to the left, following the quay again, but now away from the lake.

“It may be just my health,” he thought, allowing himself a very unusual doubt of his soundness; for, with the exception of a childish ailment or two, he had never been ill in his life.  But that was a danger, too.  Only, it seemed as though he were being looked after in a specially remarkable way.  “If I believed in an active Providence,” Razumov said to himself, amused grimly, “I would see here the working of an ironical finger.  To have a Julius Laspara put in my way as if expressly to remind me of my purpose is—­Write, he had said.  I must write—­I must, indeed!  I shall write—­never fear.  Certainly.  That’s why I am here.  And for the future I shall have something to write about.”

He was exciting himself by this mental soliloquy.  But the idea of writing evoked the thought of a place to write in, of shelter, of privacy, and naturally of his lodgings, mingled with a distaste for the necessary exertion of getting there, with a mistrust as of some hostile influence awaiting him within those odious four walls.