“Tell me, Natalia Victorovna,” he asked after a pause, “do you believe in remorse?”

“What a question!”

“What can you know of it?” he muttered thickly.  “It is not for such as you....  What I meant to ask was whether you believed in the efficacy of remorse?”

She hesitated as though she had not understood, then her face lighted up.

“Yes,” she said firmly.

“So he is absolved.  Moreover, that Ziemianitch was a brute, a drunken brute.”

A shudder passed through Natalia Haldin.

“But a man of the people,” Razumov went on, “to whom they, the revolutionists, tell a tale of sublime hopes.  Well, the people must be forgiven....  And you must not believe all you’ve heard from that source, either,” he added, with a sort of sinister reluctance.

“You are concealing something from me,” she exclaimed.

“Do you, Natalia Victorovna, believe in the duty of revenge?”

“Listen, Kirylo Sidorovitch.  I believe that the future shall be merciful to us all.  Revolutionist and reactionary, victim and executioner, betrayer and betrayed, they shall all be pitied together when the light breaks on our black sky at last.  Pitied and forgotten; for without that there can be no union and no love.”

“I hear.  No revenge for you, then?  Never?  Not the least bit?” He smiled bitterly with his colourless lips.  “You yourself are like the very spirit of that merciful future.  Strange that it does not make it easier....  No!  But suppose that the real betrayer of your brother—­Ziemianitch had a part in it too, but insignificant and quite involuntary—­suppose that he was a young man, educated, an intellectual worker, thoughtful, a man your brother might have trusted lightly, perhaps, but still—­suppose....  But there’s a whole story there.”

“And you know the story!  But why, then—­”

“I have heard it.  There is a staircase in it, and even phantoms, but that does not matter if a man always serves something greater than himself—­the idea.  I wonder who is the greatest victim in that tale?”

“In that tale!” Miss Haldin repeated.  She seemed turned into stone.

“Do you know why I came to you?  It is simply because there is no one anywhere in the whole great world I could go to.  Do you understand what I say?  Not one to go to.  Do you conceive the desolation of the thought—­no one—­to—­go—­to?”

Utterly misled by her own enthusiastic interpretation of two lines in the letter of a visionary, under the spell of her own dread of lonely days, in their overshadowed world of angry strife, she was unable to see the truth struggling on his lips.  What she was conscious of was the obscure form of his suffering.  She was on the point of extending her hand to him impulsively when he spoke again.

“An hour after I saw you first I knew how it would be.  The terrors of remorse, revenge, confession, anger, hate, fear, are like nothing to the atrocious temptation which you put in my way the day you appeared before me with your voice, with your face, in the garden of that accursed villa.”