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."

With those ideas of industry in his head the warmth of his room was
agreeable and encouraging. "I shall put in four hours of good work,"
he thought. But no sooner had he closed the door than he was horribly
startled. All black against the usual tall stove of white tiles gleaming
in the dusk, stood a strange figure, wearing a skirted, close-fitting,
brown cloth coat strapped round the waist, in long boots, and with a
little Astrakhan cap on its head. It loomed lithe and martial. Razumov
was utterly confounded. It was only when the figure advancing two paces
asked in an untroubled, grave voice if the outer door was closed that he
regained his power of speech.

"Haldin!... Victor Victorovitch!... Is that you?... Yes. The