She hesitated as though she had not understood, then her face lighted up.
“Yes,” she said firmly.
“So he is absolved. Moreover, that Ziemianitch was a brute, a drunken brute.”
A shudder passed through Natalia Haldin.
“But a man of the people,” Razumov went on, “to whom they, the revolutionists, tell a tale of sublime hopes. Well, the people must be forgiven.... And you must not believe all you’ve heard from that source, either,” he added, with a sort of sinister reluctance.
“You are concealing something from me,” she exclaimed.
“Do you, Natalia Victorovna, believe in the duty of revenge?”
“Listen, Kirylo Sidorovitch. I believe that the future shall be merciful to us all. Revolutionist and reactionary, victim and executioner, betrayer and betrayed, they shall all be pitied together when the light breaks on our black sky at last. Pitied and forgotten; for without that there can be no union and no love.”
“I hear. No revenge for you, then? Never? Not the least bit?” He smiled bitterly with his colourless lips. “You yourself are like the very spirit of that merciful future. Strange that it does not make it easier.... No! But suppose that the real betrayer of your brother—Ziemianitch had a part in it too, but insignificant and quite involuntary—suppose that he was a young man, educated, an intellectual worker, thoughtful, a man your brother might have trusted lightly, perhaps, but still—suppose.... But there’s a whole story there.”
“And you know the story! But why, then—”