Page:The Career of a Nihilist.djvu/27

He took the lamp to light her downstairs, and he watched her safely into her house, a block off across the street. Then he returned slowly to his solitary room.

The leaflet of the letter lay temptingly upon the table. Lena had guessed the truth. In asking for the letter, he intended, when alone, to feast upon those kind words from his distant friends. But he could not do it now. The girl by guessing it had spoiled his pleasure for him. He put the letter into his pocket to read next day. Now he was resolved to go to sleep.

He opened the folding-doors at the back of the room and disclosed an alcove. With this addition, his narrow and rather low room looked exactly like an empty cigar-box or a coffin.

He made the bed ready. But all was useless; he felt it impossible to sleep; he was too excited.

Three long, long years had elapsed since Andrey Kojukhov, compromised in the first attempts at propaganda among the peasants, as well as in later struggles, had been urged by his friends to take an “airing.” Since that time he had rambled over various countries, trying in vain to find some occupation for his restless spirit. Before the first year of his voluntary exile came to an end, violent home-sickness took hold of him, and he asked his friends, who held the field in St Petersburg, to allow him to return and take his place again in their ranks. It was peremptorily refused. There was a lull in the struggle; the police had nothing in particular to run after; and as his name was still well remembered by them, if he returned he might set all the gang in motion. Unable to do anything, he would only be a burden upon the friends, who would have to look after his safety. He ought to have understood this for himself. When there was any need of his return they would let him know. In the meantime he must keep quiet, and try to find work, either in revolutionary literature, or in the social movement abroad.

Andrey tried both, but with more zeal than success. He wrote for several Russian papers published abroad. But nature had denied him any literary talent. He felt within him an ardent enthusiastic soul; he was far from being insensible to what was beautiful and poetical. But the channels between his sentiments and their utterance were blocked in him, and things which profoundly stirred his heart, when set down by him on paper, looked savourless and commonplace. His occa-