Razumov, who had prepared his will and his intelligence to encounter General T—–­ himself, was profoundly troubled.  All the moral bracing up against the possible excesses of power and passion went for nothing before this sallow man, who wore a full unclipped beard.  It was fair, thin, and very fine.  The light fell in coppery gleams on the protuberances of a high, rugged forehead.  And the aspect of the broad, soft physiognomy was so homely and rustic that the careful middle parting of the hair seemed a pretentious affectation.

The diary of Mr. Razumov testifies to some irritation on his part.  I may remark here that the diary proper consisting of the more or less daily entries seems to have been begun on that very evening after Mr. Razumov had returned home.

Mr. Razumov, then, was irritated.  His strung-up individuality had gone to pieces within him very suddenly.

“I must be very prudent with him,” he warned himself in the silence during which they sat gazing at each other.  It lasted some little time, and was characterized (for silences have their character) by a sort of sadness imparted to it perhaps by the mild and thoughtful manner of the bearded official.  Razumov learned later that he was the chief of a department in the General Secretariat, with a rank in the civil service equivalent to that of a colonel in the army.

Razumov’s mistrust became acute.  The main point was, not to be drawn into saying too much.  He had been called there for some reason.  What reason?  To be given to understand that he was a suspect—­and also no doubt to be pumped.  As to what precisely?  There was nothing.  Or perhaps Haldin had been telling lies....  Every alarming uncertainty beset Razumov.  He could bear the silence no longer, and cursing himself for his weakness spoke first, though he had promised himself not to do so on any account.

“I haven’t lost a moment’s time,” he began in a hoarse, provoking tone; and then the faculty of speech seemed to leave him and enter the body of Councillor Mikulin, who chimed in approvingly—­

“Very proper.  Very proper.  Though as a matter of fact....”

But the spell was broken, and Razumov interrupted him boldly, under a sudden conviction that this was the safest attitude to take.  With a great flow of words he complained of being totally misunderstood.  Even as he talked with a perception of his own audacity he thought that the word “misunderstood” was better than the word “mistrusted,” and he repeated it again with insistence.  Suddenly he ceased, being seized with fright before the attentive immobility of the official.  “What am I talking about?” he thought, eyeing him with a vague gaze.  Mistrusted—­not misunderstood—­was the right symbol for these people.  Misunderstood was the other kind of curse.  Both had been brought on his head by that fellow Haldin.  And his head ached terribly.  He passed his hand over his brow—­an involuntary gesture of suffering, which he was too careless to restrain.  At that moment Razumov beheld his own brain suffering on the rack—­a long, pale figure drawn asunder horizontally with terrific force in the darkness of a vault, whose face he failed to see.  It was as though he had dreamed for an infinitesimal fraction of time of some dark print of the Inquisition.