Chapter 19

“Because in such enterprises the first always perish even if they come off victorious. And in this thing not only the first and second, but the tenth and twentieth will perish—”

“Then we shall never live to see it?”

“What you have in your mind—never. We shall never see it with our eyes; with these living eyes of ours. But with our spiritual ... but that is another matter. We may see it in that way now; there is nothing to hinder us.”

“Then why do you—”

“What?”

“Why do you follow this road?”

“Because there is no other. I mean that my aims are the same as Markelov’s—but our paths are different.”

“Poor Sergai Mihailovitch!” Mariana exclaimed sadly. Solomin passed his hand cautiously over hers.

“There, there, we know nothing as yet. We’ll see what news Pavel brings back. In our calling one must be brave. The English have a proverb ‘Never say die.’ A very good proverb, I think, much better than our Russian, ‘When trouble knocks, open the gates wide!’ We mustn’t meet trouble half way.”

Solomin stood up.

“And the place you were going to find me?” Mariana asked suddenly. The tears were still shining on her cheeks, but there was no sadness in her eyes. Solomin sat down again.

“Are you in such a great hurry to get away from here?”

“Oh, no! Only I wanted to do something useful.”

“You are useful here, Mariana. Don’t leave us yet, wait a little longer. What is it?” Solomin asked of Tatiana who was just coming in.

“Some sort of female is asking for Alexai Dmitritch,” Tatiana replied, laughing and gesticulating with her hands.

“I said that there was no such person living here, that we did not know him at all, when she—”

“Who is she?”

“Why the female of course. She wrote her name on this piece of paper and asked me to bring it here and let her in, saying that if Alexai Dmitritch was really not at home, she could wait for him.”

On the paper was written in large letters “Mashurina.”

“Show her in,” Solomin said. “You don’t mind my asking her in here, Mariana, do you? She is also one of us.”

“Not at all.”

A few moments later Mashurina appeared in the doorway, in the same dress in which we saw her at the beginning of the first chapter.

XXXI

“Is Nejdanov not at home?” she asked, then catching sight of Solomin, came up to him and extended her hand.

“How do you do, Solomin?” She threw a side-glance at Mariana.

“He will be back directly,” Solomin said. “But tell me how you came to know—”

“Markelov told me. Besides several people in the town already know that he’s here.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Somebody must have let it out. Besides Nejdanov has been recognised.”

“For all the dressing up!” Solomin muttered to himself. “Allow me to introduce you,” he said aloud, “Miss Sinitska, Miss Mashurina! Won’t you sit down?”

Mashurina nodded her head slightly and sat down. “I have a letter for Nejdanov and a message for you, Solomin.”

“What message? And from whom?”

“From someone who is well known to you.... Well, is everything ready here?”

“Nothing whatever.”

Mashurina opened her tiny eyes as wide as she could.

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“Absolutely nothing?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“Is that what I am to say?”

“Exactly.”

Mashurina became thoughtful and pulled a cigarette out of her pocket.

“Can I have a light?”

“Here is a match.”

Mashurina lighted her cigarette.

“They expected something different,” she began, “Altogether different from what you have here. However, that is your affair. I am not going to stay long. I only want to see Nejdanov and give him the letter.”

“Where are you going to?”

“A long way from here.” (She was going to Geneva, but did not want Solomin to know as she did not quite trust him, and besides a stranger was present. Mashurina, who scarcely knew a word of German, was being sent to Geneva to hand over to a person absolutely unknown to her a piece of cardboard with a vine-branch sketched on it and two hundred and seventy-nine roubles.)

“And where is Ostrodumov? Is he with you?”

“No, but he’s quite near. Got stuck on the way. He’ll be here when he’s wanted. Pemien can look after himself. There is no need to worry about him.”

“How did you get here?”

“In a cart of course. How else could I have come? Give me another match, please.”

Solomin gave her a light.

“Vassily Fedotitch!” A voice called out suddenly from the other side of the door. “Can you come out?”

“Who is it? What do you want?”

“Do come, please,” the voice repeated insistently. “Some new workmen have come. They’re trying to explain something, and Pavel Egoritch is not there.”

Solomin excused himself and went out. Mashurina fixed her gaze on Mariana and stared at her for so long that the latter began to feel uncomfortable.

“Excuse me,” Mashurina exclaimed suddenly in her hard abrupt voice, “I am a plain woman and don’t know how to put these things. Don’t be angry with me. You need not tell me if you don’t wish to. Are you the girl who ran away from the Sipiagins?”

“Yes,” Mariana replied, a little surprised.

“With Nejdanov?”

“Yes.”

“Please give me your hand... and forgive me. You must be good since he loves you.”

Mariana pressed Mashurina’s hand.

“Have you known him long?”

“I knew him in St. Petersburg. That was what made me talk to you. Sergai Mihailovitch has also told me—”

“Oh Markelov! Is it long since you’ve seen him?”

“No, not long. But he’s gone away now.”

“Where to?”

“Where he was ordered.”

Mariana sighed.

“Oh, Miss Mashurina, I fear for him.”

“In the first place, I’m not miss. You ought to cast off such manners. In the second, you say... ‘I fear,’ and that you must also cast aside. If you do not fear for yourself, you will leave off fearing for others. You must not think of yourself, nor fear for yourself. I dare say it’s easy for me to talk like that. I am ugly, while you are beautiful. It must be so much harder for you.” (Mariana looked down and turned away.) “Sergai Mihailovitch told me.... He knew I had a letter for Nejdanov.... ‘Don’t go to the factory,’ he said, ‘don’t take the letter. It will upset everything there. Leave them alone! They are both happy.... Don’t interfere with them!’ I should be glad not to interfere, but what shall I do about the letter?”

“Give it to him by all means,” Mariana put in. “How awfully good Sergai Mihailovitch is! Will they kill him, Mashurina... or send him to Siberia?”

“Well, what then? Don’t people come back from Siberia? And as for losing one’s life; it is not all like honey to everybody. To some it is sweet, to others bitter. His life has not been over-sweet.”

Mashurina gave Mariana a fixed searching look.

“How beautiful you are!” she exclaimed, “just like a bird! I don’t think Alexai is coming.... I’ll give you the letter. It’s no use waiting any longer.”

“I will give it him, you may be sure.”

Mashurina rested her cheek in her hand and for a long, long time did not speak.

“Tell me,” she began, “forgive me for asking... do you love him?”

“Yes.”

Mashurina shook her heavy head.

“There is no need to ask if he loves you. However, I had better be going, otherwise I shall be late. Tell him that I was here... give him my kind regards. Tell him Mashurina was here. You won’t forget my name, will you? Mashurina. And the letter... but say, where have I put it?”

Mashurina stood up, turned round as though she were rummaging in her pockets for the letter, and quickly raising a small piece of folded paper to her lips, swallowed it. “Oh, dear me! What have I done with it? Have I lost it? I must have dropped it. Dear me! Supposing some one should find it! I can’t find it anywhere. It’s turned out exactly as Sergai Mihailovitch wanted after all!”

“Look again,” Mariana whispered. Mashurina waved her hand.

“It’s no good. I’ve lost it.”

Mariana came up to her.

“Well, then, kiss me.”

Mashurina suddenly put her arms about Mariana and pressed her to her bosom with more than a woman’s strength.

“I would not have done this for anybody,” she said, a lump rising in her throat, “against my conscience ... the first time! Tell him to be more careful.... And you too. Be cautious. It will soon be very dangerous for everybody here, very dangerous. You had better both go away, while there’s still time.... Goodbye!” she added loudly with some severity. “Just one more thing ... tell him ... no, it’s not necessary. It’s nothing.”

Mashurina went out, banging the door behind her, while Mariana stood perplexed in the middle of the room.

“What does it all mean?” she exclaimed at last. “This woman loves him more than I do! What did she want to convey by her hints? And why did Solomin disappear so suddenly, and why didn’t he come back again?”

She began pacing up and down the room. A curious sensation of fear, annoyance, and amazement took possession of her. Why did she not go with Nejdanov? Solomin had persuaded her not to... but where is Solomin? And what is going on around here? Of course Mashurina did not give her the letter because of her love for Nejdanov. But how could she decide to disregard orders? Did she want to appear magnanimous? What right had she? And why was she, Mariana, so touched by her act? An unattractive woman interests herself in a young man.... What is there extraordinary about it? And why should Mashurina assume that Mariana’s attachment to Nejdanov is stronger than the feelings of duty? And did Mariana ask for such a sacrifice? And what could the letter have contained? A call for speedy action? Well, and what then?

And Markelov? He is in danger ... and what are we doing? Markelov spares us both, gives us the opportunity of being happy, does not part us.... What makes him do it? Is it also magnaminity ... or contempt?

And did we run away from that hateful house merely to live like turtle doves?

Thus Mariana pondered, while the feeling of agitation and annoyance grew stronger and stronger within her. Her pride was hurt. Why had everyone forsaken her? _Everyone._ This stout woman had called her a bird, a beauty ... why not quite plainly, a doll? And why did Nejdanov not go alone, but with Pavel? It’s just as if he needed someone to look after him! And what are really Solomin’s convictions? It’s quite clear that he’s not a revolutionist! And could any one really think that he does not treat the whole thing seriously?

These were the thoughts that whirled round, chasing one another and becoming entangled in Mariana’s feverish brain. Pressing her lips closely together and folding her arms like a man, she sat down by the window at last and remained immovable, straight up in her chair, all alertness and intensity, ready to spring up at any moment. She had no desire to go to Tatiana and work; she wanted to wait alone. And she sat waiting obstinately, almost angrily. From time to time her mood seemed strange and incomprehensible even to herself.... Never mind. “Am I jealous?” flashed across her mind, but remembering poor Mashurina’s figure she shrugged her shoulders and dismissed the idea.

Mariana had been waiting for a long time when suddenly she heard the sound of two persons’ footsteps coming up the stairs. She fixed her eyes on the door... the steps drew nearer. The door opened and Nejdanov, supported under the arm by Pavel, appeared in the doorway. He was deadly pale, without a cap, his dishevelled hair hung in wet tufts over his forehead, he stared vacantly straight in front of him. Pavel helped him across the room (Nejdanov’s legs were weak and shaky) and made him sit down on the couch.

Mariana sprang up from her seat.

“What is the meaning of this? What’s the matter with him? Is he ill?”

As he settled Nejdanov, Pavel answered her with a smile, looking at her over his shoulder.

“You needn’t worry. He’ll soon be all right. It’s only because he’s not used to it.”

“What’s the matter?” Mariana persisted.

“He’s only a little tipsy. Been drinking on an empty stomach; that’s all.”

Mariana bent over Nejdanov. He was half lying on the couch, his head sunk on his breast, his eyes closed. He smelled of vodka; he was quite drunk.

“Alexai!” escaped her lips.

He raised his heavy eyelids with difficulty, and tried to smile.

“Well, Mariana!” he stammered out, “you’ve always talked of sim-plif-ication... so here I am quite simplified. Because the people are always drunk... and so...”

He ceased, then muttered something indistinctly to himself, closed his eyes, and fell asleep. Pavel stretched him carefully on the couch.

“Don’t worry, Mariana Vikentievna,” he repeated. “He’ll sleep an hour or two and wake up as fresh as can be.”

Mariana wanted to ask how this had happened, but her questions would have detained Pavel and she wanted to be alone... she did not wish Pavel to see him in this disgusting state before her. She walked away to the window while Pavel, who instantly understood her, carefully covered Nejdanov’s legs with the skirts of his coat, put a pillow under his head, and observing once again, “It’s nothing,” went out on tiptoe.

Mariana looked round. Nejdanov’s head was buried in the pillow and on his pale face there was an expression of fixed intensity as on the face of one dangerously ill.

“I wonder how it happened?” she thought.

XXXII

It happened like this.

Sitting down beside Pavel in the cart, Nejdanov fell into a state of great excitement. As soon as they rolled out of the courtyard onto the high road leading to T. he began shouting out the most absurd things to the peasants he met on the way. “Why are you asleep? Rouse yourself! The time has come! Down with the taxes! Down with the landlords!”

Some of the peasants stared at him in amazement, others passed on without taking any notice of him, thinking that he was drunk; one even said when he got home that he had met a Frenchman on the way who was jabbering away at something he did not understand. Nejdanov had common sense enough to know that what he was doing was unutterably stupid and absurd had he not got himself up to such a pitch of excitement that he was no longer able to discriminate between sense and nonsense. Pavel tried to quiet him, saying that it was impossible to go on like that; that they were quite near a large village, the first on the borders of T., and that there they could look round.... But Nejdanov would not calm down, and at the same time his face bore a sad, almost despairing, expression. Their horse was an energetic, round little thing, with a clipped mane on its scraggy neck. It tugged at the reins, and its strong little legs flew as fast as they could, just as if it were conscious of bearing important people to the scene of action. Just before they reached the village, Nejdanov saw a group of about eight peasants standing by the side of the road at the closed doors of a granary. He instantly jumped out of the cart, rushed up to them, and began shouting at them, thumping his fists and gesticulating for about five minutes. The words “For Freedom! March on! Put the shoulder to the wheel!” could be distinguished from among the rest of his confused words.

The peasants, who had met before the granary for the purpose of discussing how to fill it once more—if only to show that they were doing something (it was the communal granary and consequently empty)—fixed their eyes on Nejdanov and seemed to listen to him with the greatest attention, but they had evidently not understood a word he had said, for no sooner was his back turned, shouting for the last time “Freedom!” as he rushed away, when one of them, the most sagacious of the lot, shook his head saying, “What a severe one!” “He must be an officer,” another remarked, to which the wise one said: “We know all about that—he doesn’t talk for nothing. We’ll have to pay the piper.”

“Heavens! what nonsense this all is!” Nejdanov thought to himself, as he sat down next to Pavel in the cart. “But then none of us know how to get at the people—perhaps this is the right way after all! Who knows? Go on! Does your heart ache? Let it!”

They found themselves in the main street of the village in the middle of which a number of people were gathered together before a tavern. Nejdanov, paying no heed to Pavel, who was trying to hold him back, leapt down from the cart with a cry of “Brothers!” The crowd made way for him and he again began preaching, looking neither to right nor left, as if furious and weeping at the same time. But things turned out quite differently than with his former attempt at the barn. An enormous fellow with a clean-shaven, vicious face, in a short greasy coat, high boots, and a sheepskin cap, came up to him and clapped him on the shoulder.

“All right! my fine fellow!” he bawled out in a wheezy voice; “but wait a bit! good deeds must be rewarded. Come along in here. It’ll be much better talking in there.” He pulled Nejdanov into the tavern, the others streamed in after them. “Michaitch!” the fellow shouted, “twopennyworth! My favourite drink! I want to treat a friend. Who he is, what’s his family, and where he’s from, only the devil knows! Drink!” he said, turning to Nejdanov and handing him a heavy, full glass, wet all over on the outside, as though perspiring, “drink, if you really have any feeling for us!” “Drink!” came a chorus of voices. Nejdanov, who seemed as if in a fever, seized the glass and with a cry of “I drink to you, children!” drank it off at a gulp. Ugh! He drank it off with the same desperate heroism with which he would have flung himself in storming a battery or on a line of bayonets. But what was happening to him? Something seemed to have struck his spine, his legs, burned his throat, his chest, his stomach, made the tears come into his eyes. A shudder of disgust passed all over him. He began shouting at the top of his voice to drown the throbbing in his head. The dark tavern room suddenly became hot and thick and suffocating—and people, people everywhere! Nejdanov began talking, talking incessantly, shouting furiously, in exasperation, shaking broad rough hands, kissing prickly beards. ... The enormous fellow in the greasy coat kissed him too, nearly breaking his ribs. This fellow turned out to be a perfect fiend. “I’ll wring the neck,” he shouted, “I’ll wring the neck of anyone who dares to offend our brother! And what’s more, I’ll make mincemeat of him too... I’ll make him cry out! That’s nothing to me. I was a butcher and know how to do such jobs!” At this he held up an enormous fist covered with freckles. Someone again shouted, “Drink!” and Nejdanov again swallowed a glass of the filthy poison. But this second time was truly awful! Blunt hooks seemed to be tearing him to pieces inside. His head was in a whirl, green circles swam before his eyes. A hubbub arose... Oh horror! a third glass. Was it possible he emptied that too? He seemed to be surrounded by purple noses, dusty heads of hair, tanned necks covered with nets of wrinkles. Rough hands seized him. “Go on!” they bawled out in angry voices, “talk away! The day before yesterday another stranger talked like that. Go on....” The earth seemed reeling under Nejdanov’s feet, his voice sounded strange to his own ears as though coming from a long way off.... Was it death or what?

And suddenly he felt the fresh air blowing about his face, no more pushing and shoving, no more stench of spirits, sheep-skin, tar, nor leather.... He was again sitting beside Pavel in the cart, struggling at first and shouting, “Where are you off to? Stop! I haven’t had time to tell them anything—I must explain...” and then added, “and what are your own ideas on the subject, you sly-boots?”

“It would certainly be well if there were no gentry and the land belonged to us, of course,” Pavel replied, “but there’s been no such order from the government.” He quietly turned the horse’s head and, suddenly lashing it on the back with the reins, set off at full gallop, away from this din and uproar, back to the factory.

Nejdanov sat dozing, rocked by the motion of the cart, while the wind played pleasantly about his face and kept back gloomy depressing thoughts.

He was annoyed that he had not been allowed to say all that he had wanted to say.... Again the wind caressed his overheated face.

And then—a momentary glimpse of Mariana—a burning sense of shame—and sleep, deep, sound sleep....

Pavel told Solomin all this afterwards, not hiding the fact that he did not attempt to prevent Nejdanov from drinking—otherwise he could not have got him out of the whirl. The others would not have let him go.

“When he seemed to be getting very feeble, I asked them to let him off, and they agreed to, on condition that I gave them a shilling, so I gave it them.”

“You acted quite rightly,” Solomin said, approvingly.

Nejdanov slept, while Mariana sat at the window looking out into the garden. Strange to say the angry, almost wicked, thoughts that had been tormenting her until Nejdanov and Pavel arrived had completely disappeared. Nejdanov himself was not in the least repulsive or disgusting to her; she was only sorry for him. She knew quite well that he was not a debauchee, a drunkard, and was wondering what she would say to him when he woke up; something friendly and affectionate to minimise the first sting of conscience and shame. “I must try and get him to tell me himself how it all happened,” she thought.

She was not disturbed, but depressed—hopelessly depressed. It seemed as if a breath of the real atmosphere of the world towards which she was striving had blown on her suddenly, making her shudder at its coarseness and darkness. What Moloch was this to which she was going to sacrifice herself?

But no! It could not be! This was merely an incident, it would soon pass over. A momentary impression that had struck her so forcibly because it had happened so unexpectedly. She got up, walked over to the couch on which Nejdanov was lying, took out her pocket-handkerchief and wiped his pale forehead, which was painfully drawn, even in sleep, and smoothed back his hair....

She pitied him as a mother pities her suffering child. But it was somewhat painful for her to look at him, so she went quietly into her own room, leaving the door unlocked.

She did not attempt to take any work in her hand. She sat down and thoughts began crowding in upon her. She felt how the time was slipping away, how one minute flew after another, and the sensation was even pleasant to her. Her heart beat fast and again she seemed to be waiting for something.

What has become of Solomin?

The door creaked softly and Tatiana came into the room. “What do you want?” Mariana asked with a shade of annoyance.

“Mariana Vikentievna,” Tatiana began in an undertone, “don’t worry, my dear. Such things happen every day. Besides, the Lord be thanked—”

“I am not worrying at all, Tatiana Osipovna,” Mariana interrupted her. “Alexai Dmitritch is a little indisposed, nothing very serious!”

“That’s all right! I wondered why you didn’t come, and thought there might be something the matter with you. But still I wouldn’t have come in to you. It’s always best not to interfere. But someone has come—a little lame man, the Lord knows who he is—and demands to see Alexai Dmitritch! I wonder what for? This morning that female came for him and now this little cripple. ‘If Alexai Dmitritch is not at home,’ he says, ‘then I must see Vassily Fedotitch! I won’t go away without seeing him. It’s on a very urgent matter.’ We wanted to get rid of him, as we did of that woman, told him Vassily Fedotitch was not at home, but he is determined to see him even if he has to wait until midnight. There he is walking about in the yard. Come and have a look at him through the little window in the corridor. Perhaps you’ll recognise him.”

Mariana followed Tatiana out into the corridor, and on passing Nejdanov was again struck by that painful frown on his forehead and passed her pocket-handkerchief over it a second time.

Through the dusty little window she caught a glimpse of the visitor whom Tatiana had spoken of. He was unknown to her. At this moment Solomin appeared from a corner of the house.