The attorney rummaged amongst the papers on his desk for a time.  “Do you know who that was?” he asked suddenly.

Razumov, whose heart was thumping hard yet, shook his head in silence.

“That was Prince K—–.  You wonder what he could be doing in the hole of a poor legal rat like myself—­eh?  These awfully great people have their sentimental curiosities like common sinners.  But if I were you, Kirylo Sidorovitch,” he continued, leering and laying a peculiar emphasis on the patronymic, “I wouldn’t boast at large of the introduction.  It would not be prudent, Kirylo Sidorovitch.  Oh dear no!  It would be in fact dangerous for your future.”

The young man’s ears burned like fire; his sight was dim.  “That man!” Razumov was saying to himself.  “He!”

Henceforth it was by this monosyllable that Mr. Razumov got into the habit of referring mentally to the stranger with grey silky side-whiskers.  From that time too, when walking in the more fashionable quarters, he noted with interest the magnificent horses and carriages with Prince K—–­’s liveries on the box.  Once he saw the Princess get out—­she was shopping—­followed by two girls, of which one was nearly a head taller than the other.  Their fair hair hung loose down their backs in the English style; they had merry eyes, their coats, muffs, and little fur caps were exactly alike, and their cheeks and noses were tinged a cheerful pink by the frost.  They crossed the pavement in front of him, and Razumov went on his way smiling shyly to himself.  “His” daughters.  They resembled “Him.”  The young man felt a glow of warm friendliness towards these girls who would never know of his existence.  Presently they would marry Generals or Kammerherrs and have girls and boys of their own, who perhaps would be aware of him as a celebrated old professor, decorated, possibly a Privy Councillor, one of the glories of Russia—­nothing more!

But a celebrated professor was a somebody.  Distinction would convert the label Razumov into an honoured name.  There was nothing strange in the student Razumov’s wish for distinction.  A man’s real life is that accorded to him in the thoughts of other men by reason of respect or natural love.  Returning home on the day of the attempt on Mr. de P—–­’s life Razumov resolved to have a good try for the silver medal.

Climbing slowly the four flights of the dark, dirty staircase in the house where he had his lodgings, he felt confident of success.  The winner’s name would be published in the papers on New Year’s Day.  And at the thought that “He” would most probably read it there, Razumov stopped short on the stairs for an instant, then went on smiling faintly at his own emotion.  “This is but a shadow,” he said to himself, “but the medal is a solid beginning.”