May had reached its second half; the first hot summer days had already
set in.
After his history lesson one day, Nejdanov wandered out into the garden,
and from thence into a birch wood adjoining it on one side. Certain
parts of this wood had been cleared by merchants about fifteen years
ago, but these clearings were already densely overgrown by young
birches, whose soft silver trunks encircled by grey rings rose as
straight as pillars, and whose bright green leaves sparkled as if they
had just been washed and polished. The grass shot up in sharp tongues
through the even layers of last year’s fallen leaves. Little narrow
paths ran here and there, from which yellow-beaked blackbirds rose with
startled cries, flying close to the earth into the wood as hard as they
could go.
After wandering about for half an hour, Nejdanov sat down on the stump
of a tree, surrounded by old greyish splinters, lying in heaps, exactly
as they had fallen when cut down by the axe. Many a time had these
splinters been covered by the winter’s snow and been thawed by the
spring sun, but nobody had touched them.
Nejdanov leaned against a solid wall of young birches casting a heavy
though mild shade. He was not thinking of anything in particular, but
gave himself up to those peculiar sensations of spring which in the
heart of young and old alike are always mixed with a certain degree of
sadness—the keen sadness of awaiting in the young and of settled regret
in the old.
Nejdanov was suddenly awakened by approaching footsteps.
It did not sound like the footsteps of one person, nor like a peasant in
heavy boots, or a barefooted peasant woman; it seemed as if two people
were advancing at a slow, measured pace. The slight rustling of a
woman’s dress was heard.
Suddenly a deep man’s voice was heard to say:
“Is this your last word? Never?”
“Never!” a familiar woman’s voice repeated, and a moment later from a
bend in the path, hidden from view by a young tree, Mariana appeared,
accompanied by a swarthy man with black eyes, an individual whom
Nejdanov had never seen before.
They both stood still as if rooted to the spot on catching sight of him,
and he was so taken aback that he did not rise from the stump he was
sitting on. Mariana blushed to the roots of her hair, but instantly
gave a contemptuous smile. It was difficult to say whether the smile was
meant for herself, for having blushed, or for Nejdanov. Her companion
scowled—a sinister gleam was seen in the yellowish whites of his
troubled eyes. He exchanged glances with Mariana, and without saying a
word they turned their backs on Nejdanov and walked away as slowly as
they had come, while Nejdanov followed them with a look of amazement.
Half an hour later he returned home to his room, and when, at the sound
of the gong, he appeared in the drawing room, the dark-eyed stranger
whom he had seen in the wood was already there. Sipiagin introduced
Nejdanov to him as his _beaufrère’a_, Valentina Mihailovna’s
brother—Sergai Mihailovitch Markelov.
“I hope you will get to know each other and be friends, gentlemen,”
Sipiagin exclaimed with the amiable, stately, though absent-minded smile
characteristic of him.
Markelov bowed silently; Nejdanov responded in a similar way, and
Sipiagin, throwing back his head slightly and shrugging his shoulders,
walked away, as much as to say, “I’ve brought you together, but whether
you become friends or not is a matter of equal indifference to me!”
Valentina Mihailovna came up to the silent pair, standing motionless,
and introduced them to each other over again; she then turned to her
brother with that peculiarly bright, caressing expression which she
seemed able to summon at will into her wonderful eyes.
“Why, my dear _Serge_, you’ve quite forgotten us! You did not even come
on Kolia’s nameday. Are you so very busy? My brother is making some
sort of new arrangement with his peasants,” she remarked, turning to
Nejdanov. “So very original—three parts of everything for them and one
for himself; even then he thinks that he gets more than his share.”
“My sister is fond of joking,” Markelov said to Nejdanov in his turn,
“but I am prepared to agree with her; for _one_ man to take a quarter
of what belongs to a _hundred_, is certainly too much.”
“Do you think that I am fond of joking, Alexai Dmitritch?” Madame
Sipiagina asked with that same caressing softness in her voice and in
her eyes.
Nejdanov was at a loss for a reply, but just then Kollomietzev was
announced. The hostess went to meet him, and a few moments later a
servant appeared and announced in a sing-song voice that dinner was
ready.
At dinner Nejdanov could not keep his eyes off Mariana and Markelov.
They sat side by side, both with downcast eyes, compressed lips, and an
expression of gloomy severity on their angry faces. Nejdanov wondered
how Markelov could possibly be Madame Sipiagina’s brother; they were so
little like each other. There was only one point of resemblance
between them, their dark complexions; but the even colour of Valentina
Mihailovna’s face, arms, and shoulders constituted one of her charms,
while in her brother it reached to that shade of swarthiness which
polite people call “bronze,” but which to the Russian eye suggests a
brown leather boot-leg.
Markelov had curly hair, a somewhat hooked nose, thick lips, sunken
cheeks, a narrow chest, and sinewy hands. He was dry and sinewy all
over, and spoke in a curt, harsh, metallic voice. The sleepy look
in his eyes, the gloomy expression, denoted a bilious temperament!
He ate very little, amused himself by making bread pills, and every
now and again would fix his eyes on Kollomietzev. The latter had
just returned from town, where he had been to see the governor upon
a rather unpleasant matter for himself, upon which he kept a tacit
silence, but was very voluble about everything else. Sipiagin sat on
him somewhat when he went a little too far, but laughed a good deal at
his anecdotes and _bon mots_, although he thought _qu’il est un affreux
réactionnaire_. Kollomietzev declared, among other things, how he went
into raptures at what the peasants, _oui, oui! les simples mougiks!_
call lawyers. “Liars! Liars!” he shouted with delight. _“Ce peuple
russe est délicieux!”_ He then went on to say how once, when going
through a village school, he asked one of the children what a babugnia
was, and nobody could tell him, not even the teacher himself. He then
asked what a pithecus was, and no one knew even that, although he had
quoted the poet Himnitz, ‘The weakwitted pithecus that mocks the other
beasts.’ Such is the deplorable condition of our peasant schools!
“But,” Valentina Mihailovna remarked, “I don’t know myself what are
these animals!”
“Madame!” Kollomietzev exclaimed, “there is no necessity for you to
know!”
“Then why should the peasants know?”
“Because it is better for them to know about these animals than about
Proudhon or Adam Smith!”
Here Sipiagin again intervened, saying that Adam Smith was one of the
leading lights in human thought, and that it would be well to imbibe his
principles (he poured himself out a glass of wine) with the (he lifted
the glass to his nose and sniffed at it) mother’s milk! He swallowed the
wine. Kollomietzev also drank a glass and praised it highly.
Markelov payed no special attention to Kollomietzev’s talk, but glanced
interrogatively at Nejdanov once or twice; he flicked one of his little
bread pills, which just missed the nose of the eloquent guest.
Sipiagin left his brother-in-law in peace; neither did Valentina
Mihailovna speak to him; it was evident that both husband and wife
considered Markelov an eccentric sort of person whom it was better not
to provoke.
After dinner Markelov went into the billiard room to smoke a pipe, and
Nejdanov withdrew into his own room.
In the corridor he ran against Mariana. He wanted to slip past her, when
she stopped him with a quick movement of the hand.
“Mr. Nejdanov,” she said in a somewhat unsteady tone of voice, “it ought
to be all the same to me what you think of me, but still I find it... I
find it...” (she could not think of a fitting word) “I find it necessary
to tell you that when you met me in the wood today with Mr. Markelov...
you must no doubt have thought, when you saw us both confused, that we
had come there by appointment.”
“It did seem a little strange to me—” Nejdanov began. “Mr. Markelov,”
Mariana interrupted him, “proposed to me... and I refused him. That is
all I wanted to say to you. Goodnight. Think what you like of me.”
She turned away and walked quickly down the corridor.
Nejdanov entered his own room and sat down by the window musing. “What
a strange girl—why this wild issue, this uninvited explanation? Is it a
desire to be original, or simply affectation—or pride? Pride, no doubt.
She can’t endure the idea... the faintest suspicion, that anyone should
have a wrong opinion of her. What a strange girl!”
Thus Nejdanov pondered, while he was being discussed on the terrace
below; every word could be heard distinctly.
“I have a feeling,” Kollomietzev declared, “a feeling, that he’s
a revolutionist. When I served on a special commission at the
governor-general’s of Moscow _avec Ladislas_, I learned to scent these
gentlemen as well as nonconformists. I believe in instinct above
everything.” Here Kollomietzev related how he had once caught an old
sectarian by the heel somewhere near Moscow, on whom he had looked in,
accompanied by the police, and who nearly jumped out of his cottage
window. “He was sitting quite quietly on his bench until that moment,
the blackguard!”
Kollomietzev forgot to add that this old man, when put into prison,
refused to take any food and starved himself to death.
“And your new tutor,” Kollomietzev went on zealously, “is a
revolutionist, without a shadow of a doubt! Have you noticed that he is
never the first to bow to anyone?”
“Why should he?” Madame Sipiagina asked; “on the contrary, that is what
I like about him.”
“I am a guest in the house in which he serves,” Kollomietzev exclaimed,
“yes, serves for money, _comme un salarié_.... Consequently I am his
superior.... He _ought_ to bow to me first.”
“My dear Kollomietzev, you are very particular,” Sipiagin put in,
laying special stress on the word _dear_. “I thought, if you’ll forgive
my saying so, that we had outgrown all that. I pay for his services,
his work, but he remains a free man.”
“He does not feel the bridle, _le frein!_ All these revolutionists are
like that. I tell you I can smell them from afar! Only _Ladislas_ can
compare with me in this respect. If this tutor were to fall into my
hands wouldn’t I give it to him! I would make him sing a very different
tune! How he would begin touching his cap to me—it would be a pleasure
to see him!”
“Rubbish, you swaggering little braggart!” Nejdanov almost shouted
from above, but at this moment the door opened and, to his great
astonishment, Markelov entered the room.
X
Nejdanov rose to meet him, and Markelov, coming straight up to him,
without any form of greeting, asked him if he was Alexai Dmitritch, a
student of the St. Petersburg University.
“Yes,” Nejdanov replied.
Markelov took an unsealed letter out of a side pocket.
“In that case, please read this. It is from Vassily Nikolaevitch,” he
added, lowering his voice significantly.
Nejdanov unfolded and read the letter. It was a semi-official circular
in which Sergai Markelov was introduced as one of “us,” and absolutely
trustworthy; then followed some advice about the urgent necessity of
united action in the propaganda of their well-known principles.
The circular was addressed to Nejdanov, as being a person worthy of
confidence.
Nejdanov extended his hand to Markelov, offered him a chair, and sat
down himself.
Markelov, without saying a word, began lighting a cigarette; Nejdanov
followed his example.
“Have you managed to come in contact with the peasants here?” Markelov
asked at last.
“No, I haven’t had time as yet.”
“How long have you been here?”
“About a fortnight.”
“Have you much to do?”
“Not very much.”
Markelov gave a severe cough.
“H’m! The people here are stupid enough. A most ignorant lot. They
must be enlightened. They’re wretchedly poor, but one can’t make them
understand the cause of their poverty.”
“Your brother-in-law’s old serfs, as far as one can judge, do not seem
to be poor,” Nejdanov remarked.
“My brother-in-law knows what he is about; he is a perfect master at
humbugging people. His peasants are certainly not so badly off; but he
has a factory; that is where we must turn our attention. The slightest
dig there will make the ants move. Have you any books with you?”
“Yes, a few.”
“I will get you some more. How is it you have so few?”
Nejdanov made no reply. Markelov also ceased, and began sending out
puffs of smoke through his nostrils.
“What a pig this Kollomietzev is!” he exclaimed suddenly. “At dinner I
could scarcely keep from rushing at him and smashing his impudent face
as a warning to others. But no, there are more important things to be
done just now. There is no time to waste getting angry with fools for
saying stupid things. The time has now come to prevent them _doing_
stupid things.”
Nejdanov nodded his head and Markelov went on smoking. “Among the
servants here there is only one who is any good,” he began again. “Not
your man, Ivan, he has no more sense than a fish, but another one,
Kirill, the butler.” (Kirill was known to be a confirmed drunkard.)
“He is a drunken debauchee, but we can’t be too particular. What do you
think of my sister?” he asked, suddenly fixing his yellowish eyes on
Nejdanov. “She is even more artful than my brother-in-law. What do you
think of her?”
“I think that she is a very kind and pleasant lady...besides, she is
very beautiful.”
“H’m! With what subtlety you St. Petersburg gentlemen express
yourselves! I can only marvel at it. Well, and what about—” he began,
but his face darkened suddenly, and he did not finish the sentence. “I
see that we must have a good talk,” he went on. “It is quite impossible
here. Who knows! They may be listening at the door. I have a suggestion.
Today is Saturday; you won’t be giving lessons to my nephew tomorrow,
will you?”
“I have a rehearsal with him at three o’clock.”
“A rehearsal! It sounds like the stage. My sister, no doubt, invented
the word. Well, no matter. Would you like to come home with me now? My
village is about ten miles off. I have some excellent horses who will
get us there in a twinkling. You could stay the night and the morning,
and I could bring you back by three o’clock tomorrow. Will you come?”
“With pleasure,” Nejdanov replied. Ever since Markelov’s appearance he
had been in a state of great excitement and embarrassment. This sudden
intimacy made him feel ill at ease, but he was nevertheless drawn to
him. He felt certain that the man before him was of a sufficiently blunt
nature, but for all that honest and full of strength. Moreover, the
strange meeting in the wood, Mariana’s unexpected explanation....
“Very well!” Markelov exclaimed. “You can get ready while I order the
carriage to be brought out. By the way, I hope you won’t have to ask
permission of our host and hostess.”
“I must tell them. I don’t think it would be wise to go away without
doing so.”
“I’ll tell them,” Markelov said. “They are engrossed in their cards just
now and will not notice your absence. My brother-in-law aims only at
governmental folk, and the only thing he can do well is to play at
cards. However, it is said that many succeed in getting what they
want through such means. You’ll get ready, won’t you? I’ll make all
arrangements immediately.”
Markelov withdrew, and an hour later Nejdanov sat by his side on the
broad leather-cushioned seat of his comfortable old carriage. The little
coachman on the box kept on whistling in wonderfully pleasant bird-like
notes; three piebald horses, with plaited manes and tails, flew like
the wind over the smooth even road; and already enveloped in the first
shadows of the night (it was exactly ten o’clock when they started),
trees, bushes, fields, meadows, and ditches, some in the foreground,
others in the background, sailed swiftly towards them.
Markelov’s tiny little village, Borsionkov, consisting of about two
hundred acres in all, and bringing him in an income of seven hundred
roubles a year, was situated about three miles away from the provincial
town, seven miles off from Sipiagin’s village. To get to Borsionkov from
Sipiagin’s, one had to go through the town. Our new friends had scarcely
time to exchange a hundred words when glimpses of the mean little
dwellings of shopkeepers on the outskirts of the town flashed past them,
little dwellings with shabby wooden roofs, from which faint patches
of light could be seen through crooked little windows; the wheels soon
rattled over the town bridge, paved with cobble stones; the carriage
gave a jerk, rocked from side to side, and swaying with every jolt,
rolled past the stupid two-storied stone houses, with imposing frontals,
inhabited by merchants, past the church, ornamented with pillars,
past the shops.... It was Saturday night and the streets were already
deserted—only the taverns were still filled with people. Hoarse drunken
voices issued from them, singing, accompanied by the hideous sounds of
a concertina. Every now and again a door opened suddenly, letting forth
the red reflection of a rush-light and a filthy, overpowering smell of
alcohol. Almost before every tavern door stood little peasant carts,
harnessed with shaggy, big-bellied, miserable-looking hacks, whose heads
were bowed submissively as if asleep; a tattered, unbelted peasant in a
big winter cap, hanging like a sack at the back of his head, came out
of a tavern door, and leaning his breast against the shafts, stood there
helplessly fumbling at something with his hands; or a meagre-looking
factory worker, his cap awry, his shirt unfastened, barefooted, his
boots having been left inside, would take a few uncertain steps, stop
still, scratch his back, groan suddenly, and turn in again....
“Drink will be the ruin of the Russian!” Markelov remarked gloomily.
“It’s from grief, Sergai Mihailovitch,” the coachman said without
turning round. He ceased whistling on passing each tavern and seemed to
sink into his own thoughts.
“Go on! Go on!” Markelov shouted angrily, vigorously tugging at his own
coat collar. They drove through the wide market square reeking with the
smell of rush mats and cabbages, past the governor’s house with coloured
sentry boxes standing at the gate, past a private house with turrets,
past the boulevard newly planted with trees that were already dying,
past the hotel court-yard, filled with the barking of dogs and the
clanging of chains, and so on through the town gates, where they
overtook a long, long line of waggons, whose drivers had taken advantage
of the evening coolness, then out into the open country, where they
rolled along more swiftly and evenly over the broad road, planted on
either side with willows.
We must now say a few words about Markelov. He was six years older than
his sister, Madame Sipiagina, and had been educated at an artillery
school, which he left as an ensign, but sent in his resignation when he
had reached the rank of lieutenant, owing to a certain unpleasantness
that passed between him and his commanding officer, a German. Ever
since then he always detested Germans, especially Russian Germans. He
quarrelled with his father on account of his resignation, and never
saw him again until just before his death, after which he inherited the
little property and settled on it. In St. Petersburg he often came in
contact with various brilliant people of advanced views, whom he simply
worshipped, and who finally brought him around to their way of thinking.
Markelov had read little, mostly books relating to the thing that
chiefly interested him, and was especially attached to Herzen. He
retained his military habits, and lived like a Spartan and a monk. A few
years ago he fell passionately in love with a girl who threw him over in
a most unceremonious manner and married an adjutant, also a German. He
consequently hated adjutants too. He tried to write a series of special
articles on the shortcomings of our artillery, but had not the remotest
idea of exposition and never finished a single article; he continued,
however, covering large sheets of grey paper with his large, awkward,
childish handwriting. Markelov was a man obstinate and fearless to
desperation, never forgiving or forgetting, with a constant sense
of injury done to himself and to all the oppressed, and prepared for
anything. His limited mind was for ever knocking against one point; what
was beyond his comprehension did not exist, but he loathed and
despised all deceit and falsehood. With the upper classes, with the
“reactionaries” as he called them, he was severe and even rude, but
with the people he was simple, and treated a peasant like a brother.
He managed his property fairly well, his head was full of all sorts
of socialist schemes, which he could no more put into practice than he
could finish his articles on the shortcomings of the artillery. He never
succeeded in anything, and was known in his regiment as “the failure.”
Of a sincere, passionate, and morbid nature, he could at a given moment
appear merciless, blood-thirsty, deserving to be called a brute; at
another, he would be ready to sacrifice himself without a moment’s
hesitation and without any idea of reward.
At about two miles away from the town the carriage plunged suddenly into
the soft darkness of an aspen wood, amidst the rustling of invisible
leaves, the fresh moist odour of the forest, with faint patches of light
from above and a mass of tangled shadows below. The moon had already
risen above the horizon, broad and red like a copper shield. Emerging
from the trees, the carriage came upon a small low farm house. Three
illuminated windows stood out sharply on the front of the house, which
shut out the moon’s disc; the wide, open gate looked as if it was never
shut. Two white stage-horses, attached to the back of a high trap, were
standing in the courtyard, half in obscurity; two puppies, also white,
rushed out from somewhere and gave forth piercing, though harmless,
barks. People were seen moving in the house—the carriage rolled up to
the doorstep, and Markelov, climbing out and feeling with difficulty for
the iron carriage step, put on, as is usually the case, by the domestic
blacksmith in the most inconvenient possible place, said to Nejdanov:
“Here we are at home. You will find guests here whom you know very well,
but little expect to meet. Come in, please.”