Peter Ivanovitch, who had been helping himself with a few gestures, clasped his hands again behind his back, and made a few steps, pondering.
“Not all patricians,” he muttered at last. “But you, at any rate, are one of us.”
Razumov smiled bitterly.
“To be sure my name is not Gugenheimer,” he said in a sneering tone. “I am not a democratic Jew. How can I help it? Not everybody has such luck. I have no name, I have no....”
The European celebrity showed a great concern. He stepped back a pace and his arms flew in front of his person, extended, deprecatory, almost entreating. His deep bass voice was full of pain.
“But, my dear young friend!” he cried. “My dear Kirylo Sidorovitch....”
Razumov shook his head.
“The very patronymic you are so civil as to use when addressing me I have no legal right to—but what of that? I don’t wish to claim it. I have no father. So much the better. But I will tell you what: my mother’s grandfather was a peasant—a serf. See how much I am one of you. I don’t want anyone to claim me. But Russia can’t disown me. She cannot!”
Razumov struck his breast with his fist.
“I am it!”