He was perfectly aware of madcap Kostia gazing like a young retriever from a distance, of the famished student with the red drooping nose, keeping scrupulously away as desired; of twenty others, perhaps, he knew well enough to speak to.  And they all had an air of curiosity and concern as if they expected something to happen.  “This can’t last much longer,” thought Razumov more than once.  On certain days he was afraid that anyone addressing him suddenly in a certain way would make him scream out insanely a lot of filthy abuse.  Often, after returning home, he would drop into a chair in his cap and cloak and remain still for hours holding some book he had got from the library in his hand; or he would pick up the little penknife and sit there scraping his nails endlessly and feeling furious all the time—­simply furious.  “This is impossible,” he would mutter suddenly to the empty room.

Fact to be noted:  this room might conceivably have become physically repugnant to him, emotionally intolerable, morally uninhabitable.  But no.  Nothing of the sort (and he had himself dreaded it at first), nothing of the sort happened.  On the contrary, he liked his lodgings better than any other shelter he, who had never known a home, had ever hired before.  He liked his lodgings so well that often, on that very account, he found a certain difficulty in making up his mind to go out.  It resembled a physical seduction such as, for instance, makes a man reluctant to leave the neighbourhood of a fire on a cold day.

For as, at that time, he seldom stirred except to go to the University (what else was there to do?) it followed that whenever he went abroad he felt himself at once closely involved in the moral consequences of his act.  It was there that the dark prestige of the Haldin mystery fell on him, clung to him like a poisoned robe it was impossible to fling off.  He suffered from it exceedingly, as well as from the conversational, commonplace, unavoidable intercourse with the other kind of students.  “They must be wondering at the change in me,” he reflected anxiously.  He had an uneasy recollection of having savagely told one or two innocent, nice enough fellows to go to the devil.  Once a married professor he used to call upon formerly addressed him in passing:  “How is it we never see you at our Wednesdays now, Kirylo Sidorovitch?” Razumov was conscious of meeting this advance with odious, muttering boorishness.  The professor was obviously too astonished to be offended.  All this was bad.  And all this was Haldin, always Haldin—­nothing but Haldin—­everywhere Haldin:  a moral spectre infinitely more effective than any visible apparition of the dead.  It was only the room through which that man had blundered on his way from crime to death that his spectre did not seem to be able to haunt.  Not, to be exact, that he was ever completely absent from it, but that there he had no sort of power.  There it was Razumov who had the upper hand, in a composed sense of his