XI

The guests turned out to be no other than our old friends Mashurina and

Ostrodumov. They were both sitting in the poorly-furnished drawing

room of Markelov’s house, smoking and drinking beer by the light of

a kerosene lamp. Neither of them showed the least astonishment when

Nejdanov came in, knowing beforehand that Markelov had intended bringing

him back, but Nejdanov was very much surprised on seeing them. On his

entrance Ostrodumov merely muttered “Good evening,” whilst Mashurina

turned scarlet and extended her hand. Markelov began to explain that

they had come from St. Petersburg about a week ago, Ostrodumov to remain

in the province for some time for propaganda purposes, while Mashurina

was to go on to K. to meet someone, also in connection with the cause.

He then went on to say that the time had now come for them to do

something practical, and became suddenly heated, although no one had

contradicted him. He bit his lips, and in a hoarse, excited tone of

voice began condemning the horrors that were taking place, saying that

everything was now in readiness for them to start, that none but cowards

could hold back, that a certain amount of violence was just as necessary

as the prick of the lancet to the abscess, however ripe it might be! The

lancet simile was not original, but one that he had heard somewhere. He

seemed to like it, and made use of it on every possible occasion.

Losing all hope of Mariana’s love, it seemed that he no longer cared

for anything, and was only eager to get to work, to enter the field of

action as soon as possible. He spoke harshly, angrily, but straight to

the point like the blow of an axe, his words falling from his pale lips

monotonously, ponderously, like the savage bark of a grim old watch dog.

He said that he was well acquainted with both the peasants and factory

men of the neighbourhood, and that there were possible people among

them. Instanced a certain Eremy, who, he declared, was prepared to go

anywhere at a moment’s notice. This man, Eremy, who belonged to the

village Goloplok, was constantly on his lips. At nearly every tenth word

he thumped his right hand on the table and waved the left in the air,

the forefinger standing away from the others. This sinewy, hairy

hand, the finger, hoarse voice, flashing eyes, all produced a strong

impression on his hearers.

Markelov had scarcely spoken to Nejdanov on the journey, and all his

accumulated wrath burst forth now. Ostrodumov and Mashurina expressed

their approval every now and again by a look, a smile, a short

exclamation, but a strange feeling came over Nejdanov. He tried to make

some sort of objection at first, pointing out the danger of hasty action

and mentioned certain former premature attempts. He marvelled at the

way in which everything was settled beyond a shadow of a doubt, without

taking into consideration the special circumstances, or even trying to

find out what the masses really wanted. At last his nerves became so

highly strung that they trembled like the strings of an instrument, and

with a sort of despair, almost with tears in his eyes, he began speaking

at the top of his voice, in the same strain as Markelov, going even

farther than he had done. What inspired him would be difficult to say;

was it remorse for having been inactive of late, annoyance with himself

and with others, a desire to drown the gnawings of an inner pain, or

merely to show off before his comrades, whom he had not seen for some

time, or had Markelov’s words really had some effect upon him, fired his

blood? They talked until daybreak; Ostrodumov and Mashurina did not once

rise from their seats, while Markelov and Nejdanov remained on their

feet all the time. Markelov stood on the same spot for all the world

like a sentinel, and Nejdanov walked up and down the room with nervous

strides, now slowly, now hurriedly. They spoke of the necessary means

and measures to be employed, of the part each must take upon himself,

selected and tied up various bundles of pamphlets and leaflets,

mentioned a certain merchant, Golushkin, a nonconformist, as a very

possible man, although uneducated, then a young propagandist,

Kisliakov, who was very clever, but had an exaggerated idea of his own

capabilities, and also spoke of Solomin....

“Is that the man who manages a cotton factory?” Nejdanov asked,

recalling what Sipiagin had said of him at table.

“Yes, that is the man,” Markelov replied. “You should get to know him.

We have not sounded him as yet, but I believe he is an extremely capable

man.”

Eremy of Goloplok was mentioned again, together with Sipiagin’s servant,

Kirill, and a certain Mendely, known under the name of “Sulks.” The

latter it seemed was not to be relied upon. He was very bold when sober,

but a coward when drunk, and was nearly always drunk.

“And what about your own people?” Nejdanov asked of Markelov. “Are there

any reliable men among them?”

Markelov thought there were, but did not mention anyone by name,

however. He went on to talk of the town tradespeople, of the

public-school boys, who they thought might come in useful if matters

were to come to fisticuffs. Nejdanov also inquired about the gentry of

the neighbourhood, and learned from Markelov that there were five or six

possible young men—among them, but, unfortunately, the most radical of

them was a German, “and you can’t trust a German, you know, he is sure

to deceive you sooner or later!” They must wait and see what information

Kisliakov would gather. Nejdanov also asked about the military, but

Markelov hesitated, tugged at his long whiskers, and announced at

last that with regard to them nothing certain was known as yet, unless

Kisliakov had made any discoveries.

“Who is this Kisliakov?” Nejdanov asked impatiently.

Markelov smiled significantly.

“He’s a wonderful person,” he declared. “I know very little of him,

have only met him twice, but you should see what letters he writes!

Marvellous letters! I will show them to you and you can judge for

yourself. He is full of enthusiasm. And what activity the man is capable

of! He has rushed over the length and breadth of Russia five or six

times, and written a twelve-page letter from every place!”

Nejdanov looked questioningly at Ostrodumov, but the latter was sitting

like a statue, not an eyebrow twitching. Mashurina was also motionless,

a bitter smile playing on her lips.

Nejdanov went on to ask Markelov if he had made any socialist

experiments on his own estate, but here Ostrodumov interrupted him.

“What is the good of all that?” he asked. “All the same, it will have to

be altered afterwards.”

The conversation turned to political channels again. The mysterious

inner pain again began gnawing at Nejdanov’s heart, but the keener the

pain, the more positively and loudly he spoke. He had drunk only

one glass of beer, but it seemed to him at times that he was quite

intoxicated. His head swam around and his heart beat feverishly.

When the discussion came to an end at last at about four o’clock in the

morning, and they all passed by the servant asleep in the anteroom on

their way to their own rooms, Nejdanov, before retiring to bed, stood

for a long time motionless, gazing straight before him. He was filled

with wonder at the proud, heart-rending note in all that Markelov had

said. The man’s vanity must have been hurt, he must have suffered, but

how nobly he forgot his own personal sorrows for that which he held to

be the truth. “He is a limited soul,” Nejdanov thought, “but is it not a

thousand times better to be like that than such... such as I feel myself

to be?”

He immediately became indignant at his own self-depreciation.

“What made me think that? Am I not also capable of self-sacrifice? Just

wait, gentlemen, and you too, Paklin. I will show you all that although

I am aesthetic and write verses—”

He pushed back his hair with an angry gesture, ground his teeth,

undressed hurriedly, and jumped into the cold, damp bed.

“Goodnight, I am your neighbour,” Mashurina’s voice was heard from the

other side of the door.

“Goodnight,” Nejdanov responded, and remembered suddenly that during the

whole evening she had not taken her eyes off him.

“What does she want?” he muttered to himself, and instantly felt

ashamed. “If only I could get to sleep!”

But it was difficult for him to calm his overwrought nerves, and the sun

was already high when at last he fell into a heavy, troubled sleep.

In the morning he got up late with a bad headache. He dressed, went up

to the window of his attic, and looked out upon Markelov’s farm. It

was practically a mere nothing; the tiny little house was situated in a

hollow by the side of a wood. A small barn, the stables, cellar, and

a little hut with a half-bare thatched roof, stood on one side; on the

other a small pond, a strip of kitchen garden, a hemp field, another hut

with a roof like the first one; in the distance yet another barn, a tiny

shed, and an empty threshing floor—this was all the “wealth” that met

the eye. It all seemed poor and decaying, not exactly as if it had been

allowed to run wild, but as though it had never flourished, like a young

tree that had not taken root well.

When Nejdanov went downstairs, Mashurina was sitting in the dining room

at the samovar, evidently waiting for him. She told him that Ostrodumov

had gone away on business, in connection with the cause, and would not

be back for about a fortnight, and that their host had gone to look

after his peasants. As it was already at the end of May, and there was

no urgent work to be done, Markelov had thought of felling a small birch

wood, with such means as he had at his command, and had gone down there

to see after it.

Nejdanov felt a strange weariness at heart. So much had been said the

night before about the impossibility of holding back any longer, about

the necessity of making a beginning. “But how could one begin, now, at

once?” he asked himself. It was useless talking it over with Mashurina,

there was no hesitation for her. She knew that she had to go to K., and

beyond that she did not look ahead. Nejdanov was at a loss to know what

to say to her, and as soon as he finished his tea took his hat and went

out in the direction of the birch wood. On the way he fell in with some

peasants carting manure, a few of Markelov’s former serfs. He entered

into conversation with them, but was very little the wiser for it. They,

too, seemed weary, but with a normal physical weariness, quite unlike

the sensation experienced by him. They spoke of their master as a

kind-hearted gentleman, but rather odd, and predicted his ruin, because

he would go his own way, instead of doing as his forefathers had done

before him. “And he’s so clever, you know, you can’t understand what he

says, however hard you may try. But he’s a good sort.” A little farther

on Nejdanov came across Markelov himself.

He was surrounded by a whole crowd of labourers, and one could see from

the distance that he was trying to explain something to them as hard as

he could, but suddenly threw up his arms in despair, as if it were of

no use. His bailiff, a small, short-sighted young man without a trace of

authority or firmness in his bearing, was walking beside him, and merely

kept on repeating, “Just so, sir,” to Markelov’s great disgust, who had

expected more independence from him. Nejdanov went up to Markelov, and

on looking into his face was struck by the same expression of spiritual

weariness he was himself suffering from. Soon after greeting one

another, Markelov began talking again of last night’s “problems” (more

briefly this time), about the impending revolution, the weary expression

never once leaving his face. He was smothered in perspiration and dust,

his voice was hoarse, and his clothes were covered all over with bits of

wood shavings and pieces of green moss. The labourers stood by

silently, half afraid and half amused. Nejdanov glanced at Markelov, and

Ostrodumov’s remark, “What is the good of it all? All the same, it will

have to be altered afterwards,” flashed across his mind. One of the men,

who had been fined for some offence, began begging Markelov to let him

off. The latter got angry, shouted furiously, but forgave him in the

end. “All the same, it will have to be altered afterwards.”

Nejdanov asked him for horses and a conveyance to take him home.

Markelov seemed surprised at the request, but promised to have

everything ready in good time. They turned back to the house together,

Markelov staggering as he walked.

“What is the matter with you?” Nejdanov asked.

“I am simply worn out!” Markelov began furiously. “No matter what you

do, you simply can’t make these people understand anything! They are

utterly incapable of carrying out an order, and do not even understand

plain Russian. If you talk of ‘part’, they know what that means

well enough, but the word ‘participation’ is utterly beyond their

comprehension, just as if it did not belong to the Russian language.

They’ve taken it into their heads that I want to give them a part of the

land!”

Markelov had tried to explain to the peasants the principles of

cooperation with a view to introducing it on his estate, but they were

completely opposed to it. “The pit was deep enough before, but now

there’s no seeing the bottom of it,” one of them remarked, and all the

others gave forth a sympathetic sigh, quite crushing poor Markelov. He

dismissed the men and went into the house to see about a conveyance and

lunch.

The whole of Markelov’s household consisted of a man servant, a cook,

a coachman, and a very old man with hairy ears, in a long-skirted linen

coat, who had once been his grandfather’s valet. This old man was for

ever gazing at Markelov with a most woe-begone expression on his face.

He was too old to do anything, but was always present, huddled together

by the door.

After a lunch of hard-boiled eggs, anchovies, and cold hash (the

man handing them pepper in an old pomade pot and vinegar in an old

eau-de-cologne bottle), Nejdanov took his seat in the same carriage in

which he had come the night before. This time it was harnessed to two

horses, not three, as the third had been newly shod, and was a little

lame.

Markelov had spoken very little during the meal, had eaten nothing

whatever, and breathed with difficulty. He let fall a few bitter remarks

about his farm and threw up his arms in despair. “All the same, it will

have to be altered afterwards!”

Mashurina asked Nejdanov if she might come with him as far as the town,

where she had a little shopping to do. “I can walk back afterwards or,

if need be, ask the first peasant I meet for a lift in his cart.”

Markelov accompanied them to the door, saying that he would soon send

for Nejdanov again, and then ... then (he trembled suddenly, but pulled

himself together) they would have to settle things definitely. Solomin

must also come. He (Markelov) was only waiting to hear from Vassily

Nikolaevitch, and that as soon as he heard from him there would be

nothing to hinder them from making a “beginning,” as the masses (the

same masses who failed to understand the word “participation”) refused

to wait any longer!

“Oh, by the way, what about those letters you wanted to show me? What is

the fellow’s name... Kisliakov?” Nejdanov asked.

“Later on... I will show them to you later on. We can do it all at the

same time.”

The carriage moved.

“Hold yourself in readiness!” Markelov’s voice was heard again, as he

stood on the doorstep. And by his side, with the same hopeless dejection

in his face, straightening his bent back, his hands clasped behind him,

diffusing an odour of rye bread and mustiness, not hearing a single

word that was being said around him, stood the model servant, his

grandfather’s decrepit old valet.

Mashurina sat smoking silently all the way, but when they reached the

town gates she gave a loud sigh.

“I feel so sorry for Sergai Mihailovitch,” she remarked, her face

darkening.

“He is over-worked, and it seems to me his affairs are in a bad way,”

Nejdanov said.

“I was not thinking of that.”

“What were you thinking of then?”

“He is so unhappy and so unfortunate. It would be difficult to find a

better man than he is, but he never seems to get on.”

Nejdanov looked at her.

“Do you know anything about him?”

“Nothing whatever, but you can see for yourself. Goodbye, Alexai

Dmitritch.” Mashurina clambered out of the carriage.

An hour later Nejdanov was rolling up the courtyard leading to

Sipiagin’s house. He did not feel well after his sleepless night and the

numerous discussions and explanations.

A beautiful face smiled to him out of the window. It was Madame

Sipiagina welcoming him back home.

“What glorious eyes she has!” he thought.