He sat staring at the piece of paper till his eyes began to smart.  He did not attempt to put his papers in order, either that evening or the next day—­which he spent at home in a state of peculiar irresolution.  This irresolution bore upon the question whether he should continue to live—­neither more nor less.  But its nature was very far removed from the hesitation of a man contemplating suicide.  The idea of laying violent hands upon his body did not occur to Razumov.  The unrelated organism bearing that label, walking, breathing, wearing these clothes, was of no importance to anyone, unless maybe to the landlady.  The true Razumov had his being in the willed, in the determined future—­in that future menaced by the lawlessness of autocracy—­for autocracy knows no law—­and the lawlessness of revolution.  The feeling that his moral personality was at the mercy of these lawless forces was so strong that he asked himself seriously if it were worth while to go on accomplishing the mental functions of that existence which seemed no longer his own.

“What is the good of exerting my intelligence, of pursuing the systematic development of my faculties and all my plans of work?” he asked himself.  “I want to guide my conduct by reasonable convictions, but what security have I against something—­some destructive horror—­walking in upon me as I sit here?...”

Razumov looked apprehensively towards the door of the outer room as if expecting some shape of evil to turn the handle and appear before him silently.

“A common thief,” he said to himself, “finds more guarantees in the law he is breaking, and even a brute like Ziemianitch has his consolation.”  Razumov envied the materialism of the thief and the passion of the incorrigible lover.  The consequences of their actions were always clear and their lives remained their own.

But he slept as soundly that night as though he had been consoling himself in the manner of Ziemianitch.  He dropped off suddenly, lay like a log, remembered no dream on waking.  But it was as if his soul had gone out in the night to gather the flowers of wrathful wisdom.  He got up in a mood of grim determination and as if with a new knowledge of his own nature.  He looked mockingly on the heap of papers on his table; and left his room to attend the lectures, muttering to himself, “We shall see.”

He was in no humour to talk to anybody or hear himself questioned as to his absence from lectures the day before.  But it was difficult to repulse rudely a very good comrade with a smooth pink face and fair hair, bearing the nickname amongst his fellow-students of “Madcap Kostia.”  He was the idolized only son of a very wealthy and illiterate Government contractor, and attended the lectures only during the periodical fits of contrition following upon tearful paternal remonstrances.  Noisily blundering like a retriever puppy, his elated voice and great gestures filled the bare academy corridors with the joy of thoughtless animal life, provoking indulgent smiles at a great distance.  His usual discourses treated of trotting horses, wine-parties in expensive restaurants, and the merits of persons of easy virtue, with a disarming artlessness of outlook.  He pounced upon Razumov about midday, somewhat less uproariously than his habit was, and led him aside.