A great many people came to dinner. When it was over, Nejdanov took
advantage of the general bustle and slipped away to his own room. He
wanted to be alone with his own thoughts, to arrange the impressions
he had carried away from his recent journey. Valentina Mihailovna had
looked at him intently several times during dinner, but there had been
no opportunity of speaking to him. Mariana, after the unexpected freak
which had so bewildered him, was evidently repenting of it, and seemed
to avoid him. Nejdanov took up a pen to write to his friend Silin,
but he did not know what to say to him. There were so many conflicting
thoughts and sensations crowding in upon him that he did not attempt to
disentangle them, and put them off for another day.
Kollomietzev had made one of the guests at dinner. Never before had this
worthy shown so much insolence and snobbish contemptuousness as on this
occasion, but Nejdanov simply ignored him.
He was surrounded by a sort of mist, which seemed to hang before him
like a filmy curtain, separating him from the rest of the world.
And through this film, strange to say, he perceived only three
faces—women’s faces—and all three were gazing at him intently. They
were Madame Sipiagina, Mashurina, and Mariana. What did it mean? Why
particularly these three? What had they in common, and what did they
want of him?
He went to bed early, but could not fall asleep. He was haunted by sad
and gloomy reflections about the inevitable end—death. These thoughts
were familiar to him, many times had he turned them over this way
and that, first shuddering at the probability of annihilation, then
welcoming it, almost rejoicing in it. Suddenly a peculiarly familiar
agitation took possession of him.... He mused awhile, sat down at the
table, and wrote down the following lines in his sacred copy-book,
without a single correction:
When I die, dear friend, remember This desire I tell to thee: Burn thou
to the last black ember All my heart has writ for me. Let the fairest
flowers surround me, Sunlight laugh about my bed, Let the sweetest
of musicians To the door of death be led. Bid them sound no strain
of sadness—Muted string or muffled drum; Come to me with songs of
gladness—Whirling in the wild waltz come! I would hear—ere yet I hear
not—Trembling strings their cadence keep, Chords that quiver: so I also
Tremble as I fall asleep. Memories of life and laughter, Memories of
earthly glee, As I go to the hereafter All my lullaby shall be.
When he wrote the word “friend” he thought of Silin. He read the verses
over to himself in an undertone, and was surprised at what had come from
his pen. This scepticism, this indifference, this almost frivolous lack
of faith—how did it all agree with his principles? How did it agree
with what he had said at Markelov’s? He thrust the copybook into the
table drawer and went back to bed. But he did not fall asleep until
dawn, when the larks had already begun to twitter and the sky was
turning paler.
On the following day, soon after he had finished his lesson and was
sitting in the billiard room, Madame Sipiagina entered, looked round
cautiously, and coming up to him with a smile, invited him to come into
her boudoir. She had on a white barège dress, very simple, but extremely
pretty. The embroidered frills of her sleeves came down as far as the
elbow, a broad ribbon encircled her waist, her hair fell in thick curls
about her neck. Everything about her was inviting and caressing, with
a sort of restrained, yet encouraging, caressiveness, everything; the
subdued lustre of her half-closed eyes, the soft indolence of her voice,
her gestures, her very walk. She conducted Nejdanov into her boudoir, a
cosy, charming room, filled with the scent of flowers and perfumes, the
pure freshness of feminine garments, the constant presence of a woman.
She made him sit down in an armchair, sat down beside him, and began
questioning him about his visit, about Markelov’s way of living, with
much tact and sweetness. She showed a genuine interest in her brother,
although she had not once mentioned him in Nejdanov’s presence. One
could gather from what she said that the impression Mariana had made
on her brother had not escaped her notice. She seemed a little
disappointed, but whether it was due to the fact that Mariana did not
reciprocate his feelings, or that his choice should have fallen upon
a girl so utterly unlike him, was not quite clear. But most of all she
evidently strove to soften Nejdanov, to arouse his confidence towards
her, to break down his shyness; she even went so far as to reproach him
a little for having a false idea of her.
Nejdanov listened to her, gazed at her arms, her shoulders, and from
time to time cast a look at her rosy lips and her unruly, massive curls.
His replies were brief at first; he felt a curious pressure in his
throat and chest, but by degrees this sensation gave way to another,
just as disturbing, but not devoid of a certain sweetness.... He was
surprised that such a beautiful aristocratic lady of important position
should take the trouble to interest herself in him, a simple student,
and not only interest herself, but flirt with him a little besides. He
wondered, but could not make out her object in doing so. To tell the
truth, he was little concerned about the object. Madame Sipiagina went
on to speak of Kolia, and assured Nejdanov that she wished to become
better acquainted with him only so that she might talk to him seriously
about her son, get to know his views on the education of Russian
children. It might have seemed a little curious that such a wish should
have come upon her so suddenly, but the root of the matter did not lie
in what Valentina Mihailovna had said. She had been seized by a wave of
sensuousness, a desire to conquer and bring to her feet this rebellious
young man.
Here it is necessary to go back a little. Valentina Mihailovna was
the daughter of a general who had been neither over-wise nor
over-industrious in his life. He had received only one star and a
buckle as a reward for fifty years’ service. She was a Little Russian,
intriguing and sly, endowed, like many of her countrywomen, with a very
simple and even stupid exterior, from which she knew how to extract the
maximum of advantage. Valentina Mihailovna’s parents were not rich, but
they had managed to educate her at the Smolny Convent, where, although
considered a republican, she was always in the foreground and very well
treated on account of her excellent behaviour and industriousness. On
leaving the convent she settled with her mother (her brother had gone
into the country, and her father, the general with the star and buckle,
had died) in a very clean, but extremely chilly, apartment, in which you
could see your own breath as you talked. Valentina Mihailovna used to
make fun of it and declare it was like being in church. She was very
brave in bearing with all the discomforts of a poor, pinched existence,
having a wonderfully sweet temper. With her mother’s help, she managed
both to keep up and make new connections and acquaintances, and was even
spoken of in the highest circles as a very nice well-bred girl. She had
several suitors, had fixed upon Sipiagin from them all, and had very
quickly and ingeniously made him fall in love with her. However, he
was soon convinced that he could not have made a better choice. She
was intelligent, rather good than ill-natured, at bottom cold and
indifferent, but unable to endure the idea that anyone should be
indifferent to her.
Valentina Mihailovna was possessed of that peculiar charm, the
characteristic of all “charming” egoists, in which there is neither
poetry nor real sensitiveness, but which is often full of superficial
gentleness, sympathy, sometimes even tenderness. But these charming
egoists must not be thwarted. They are very domineering and cannot
endure independence in others. Women like Madame Sipiagina excite and
disturb people of inexperienced and passionate natures, but are fond of
a quiet and peaceful life themselves. Virtue comes easy to them, they
are placid of temperament, but a constant desire to command, to attract,
and to please gives them mobility and brilliance. They have an iron
will, and a good deal of their fascination is due to this will. It is
difficult for a man to hold his ground when the mysterious sparks
of tenderness begin to kindle, as if involuntarily, in one of these
unstirred creatures; he waits for the hour to come when the ice will
melt, but the rays only play over the transparent surface, and never
does he see it melt or its smoothness disturbed!
It cost Madame Sipiagina very little to flirt, knowing full well that it
involved no danger for herself, but to take the lustre out of another’s
eyes and see them sparkle again, to see another’s cheeks become flushed
with desire and dread, to hear another’s voice tremble and break
down, to disturb another’s soul—oh, how sweet it was to her soul! How
delightful it was late at night, when she lay down in her snow-white bed
to an untroubled sleep, to remember all these agitated words and looks
and sighs. With what a self-satisfied smile she retired into herself,
into the consciousness of her inaccessibility, her invulnerability, and
with what condescension she abandoned herself to the lawful embrace of
her well-bred husband! It was so pleasant that for a little time she
was filled with emotion, ready to do some kind deed, to help a fellow
creature.... Once, after a secretary of legation, who was madly in
love with her, had attempted to cut his throat, she founded a small
alms-house! She had prayed for him fervently, although her religious
feelings from earliest childhood had not been strongly developed.
And so she talked to Nejdanov, doing everything she could to bring him
to her feet. She allowed him to come near her, she revealed herself
to him, as it were, and with a sweet curiosity, with a half-maternal
tenderness, she watched this handsome, interesting, stern radical
softening towards her quietly and awkwardly. A day, an hour, a minute
later and all this would have vanished without leaving a trace, but for
the time being it was pleasant, amusing, rather pathetic, and even a
little sad. Forgetting his origin, and knowing that such interest is
always appreciated by lonely people happening to fall among strangers,
she began questioning him about his youth, about his family.... But
guessing from his curt replies that she had made a mistake, Valentina
Mihailovna tried to smooth things over and began to unfold herself still
more before him, as a rose unfolds its fragrant petals on a hot summer’s
noon, closing them again tightly at the first approach of the evening
coolness.
She could not fully smooth over her blunder, however. Having been
touched on a sensitive spot, Nejdanov could not regain his former
confidence. That bitterness which he always carried, always felt at
the bottom of his heart, stirred again, awakening all his democratic
suspicions and reproaches. “That is not what I’ve come here for,” he
thought, recalling Paklin’s admonition. He took advantage of a pause in
the conversation, got up, bowed slightly, and went out “very foolishly”
as he could not help saying to himself afterwards.
His confusion did not escape Valentina Mihailovna’s notice, and judging
by the smile with which she accompanied him, she had put it down to her
own advantage.
In the billiard room Nejdanov came across Mariana. She was standing
with her back to the window, not far from the door of Madame Sipiagina’s
boudoir, with her arms tightly folded. Her face was almost in complete
shadow, but she fixed her fearless eyes on Nejdanov so penetratingly,
and her tightly closed lips expressed so much contempt and insulting
pity, that he stood still in amazement....
“Have you anything to say to me?” he asked involuntarily.
Mariana did not reply for a time.
“No... yes I have, though not now.”
“When?”
“You must wait awhile. Perhaps—tomorrow, perhaps—never. I know so
little—what are you really like?”
“But,” Nejdanov began, “I sometimes feel... that between us—”
“But you hardly know me at all,” Mariana interrupted him. “Well, wait a
little. Tomorrow, perhaps. Now I have to go to... my mistress. Goodbye,
till tomorrow.”
Nejdanov took a step or two in advance, but turned back suddenly.
“By the way, Mariana Vikentievna... may I come to school with you one
day before it closes? I should like to see what you do there.”
“With pleasure.... But it was not the school about which I wished to
speak to you.”
“What was it then?”
“Tomorrow,” Mariana repeated.
But she did not wait until the next day, and the conversation between
her and Nejdanov took place on that same evening in one of the linden
avenues not far from the terrace.