Under Western Eyes | Page 4

well known, are the great foes of reality. I have been for
many years a teacher of languages. It is an occupation which at length
becomes fatal to whatever share of imagination, observation, and
insight an ordinary person may be heir to. To a teacher of languages
there comes a time when the world is but a place of many words and
man appears a mere talking animal not much more wonderful than a
parrot.
This being so, I could not have observed Mr. Razumov or guessed at
his reality by the force of insight, much less have imagined him as he
was. Even to invent the mere bald facts of his life would have been
utterly beyond my powers. But I think that without this declaration the
readers of these pages will be able to detect in the story the marks of
documentary evidence. And that is perfectly correct. It is based on a
document; all I have brought to it is my knowledge of the Russian
language, which is sufficient for what is attempted here. The document,
of course, is something in the nature of a journal, a diary, yet not
exactly that in its actual form. For instance, most of it was not written
up from day to day, though all the entries are dated. Some of these

entries cover months of time and extend over dozens of pages. All the
earlier part is a retrospect, in a narrative form, relating to an event
which took place about a year before.
I must mention that I have lived for a long time in Geneva. A whole
quarter of that town, on account of many Russians residing there, is
called La Petite Russie--Little Russia. I had a rather extensive
connexion in Little Russia at that time. Yet I confess that I have no
comprehension of the Russian character. The illogicality of their
attitude, the arbitrariness of their conclusions, the frequency of the
exceptional, should present no difficulty to a student of many
grammars; but there must be something else in the way, some special
human trait--one of those subtle differences that are beyond the ken of
mere professors. What must remain striking to a teacher of languages is
the Russians' extraordinary love of words. They gather them up; they
cherish them, but they don't hoard them in their breasts; on the contrary,
they are always ready to pour them out by the hour or by the night with
an enthusiasm, a sweeping abundance, with such an aptness of
application sometimes that, as in the case of very accomplished parrots,
one can't defend oneself from the suspicion that they really understand
what they say. There is a generosity in their ardour of speech which
removes it as far as possible from common loquacity; and it is ever too
disconnected to be classed as eloquence. . . . But I must apologize for
this digression.
It would be idle to inquire why Mr. Razumov has left this record
behind him. It is inconceivable that he should have wished any human
eye to see it. A mysterious impulse of human nature comes into play
here. Putting aside Samuel Pepys, who has forced in this way the door
of immortality, innumerable people, criminals, saints, philosophers,
young girls, statesmen, and simple imbeciles, have kept self- revealing
records from vanity no doubt, but also from other more inscrutable
motives. There must be a wonderful soothing power in mere words
since so many men have used them for self- communion. Being myself
a quiet individual I take it that what all men are really after is some
form or perhaps only some formula of peace. Certainly they are crying
loud enough for it at the present day. What sort of peace Kirylo

Sidorovitch Razumov expected to find in the writing up of his record it
passeth my understanding to guess.
The fact remains that he has written it.
Mr. Razumov was a tall, well-proportioned young man, quite unusually
dark for a Russian from the Central Provinces. His good looks would
have been unquestionable if it had not been for a peculiar lack of
fineness in the features. It was as if a face modelled vigorously in wax
(with some approach even to a classical correctness of type) had been
held close to a fire till all sharpness of line had been lost in the
softening of the material. But even thus he was sufficiently
good-looking. His manner, too, was good. In discussion he was easily
swayed by argument and authority. With his younger compatriots he
took the attitude of an inscrutable listener, a listener of the kind that
hears you out intelligently and then--just changes the subject.
This sort of trick, which may arise either from intellectual insufficiency
or from an imperfect trust in one's own convictions,