Two more weeks went by; everything in its accustomed order. Sipiagin
fixed everyone’s daily occupation, if not like a minister, at any rate
like the director of a department, and was, as usual, haughty, humane,
and somewhat fastidious. Kolia continued taking lessons; Anna Zaharovna,
still full of spite, worried about him constantly; visitors came
and went, talked, played at cards, and did not seem bored. Valentina
Mihailovna continued amusing herself with Nejdanov, although her
customary affability had become mixed with a certain amount of
good-natured sarcasm. Nejdanov had become very intimate with Mariana,
and discovered that her temper was even enough and that one could
discuss most things with her without hitting against any violent
opposition. He had been to the school with her once or twice, but with
the first visit had become convinced that he could do nothing there.
It was under the entire control of the deacon, with Sipiagin’s full
consent. The good father did not teach grammar badly, although his
method was rather old-fashioned, but at examinations he would put the
most absurd questions. For instance, he once asked Garacy how he would
explain the expression, “The waters are dark under the firmament,” to
which Garacy had to answer, by the deacon’s own order, “It cannot be
explained.” However, the school was soon closed for the summer, not to
be opened again until the autumn.
Bearing in mind the suggestion of Paklin and others, Nejdanov did all
he could to come in contact with the peasants, but soon found that he
was only learning to understand them, in so far as he could make any
observation and doing no propaganda whatever! Nejdanov had lived in a
town all his life and, consequently, between him and the country people
there existed a gulf that could not be crossed. He once happened to
exchange a few words with the drunken Kirill, and even with Mendely the
Sulky, but besides abuse about things in general he got nothing out
of them. Another peasant, called Fituvy, completely nonplussed him.
This peasant had an unusually energetic countenance, almost like some
brigand. “Well, this one seems hopeful at any rate,” Nejdanov thought.
But it turned out that Fituvy was a miserable wretch, from whom the
mir had taken away his land, because he, a strong healthy man, _would
not_ work. “I can’t,” he sobbed out, with deep inward groans, “I can’t
work! Kill me or I’ll lay hands on myself!” And he ended by begging
alms in the streets! With a face out of a canvas of Rinaldo Rinaldini!
As for the factory men, Nejdanov could not get hold of them at all;
these fellows were either too sharp or too gloomy. He wrote a long
letter to his friend Silin about the whole thing, in which he bitterly
regretted his incapacity, putting it down to the vile education he had
received and to his hopelessly aesthetic nature! He suddenly came to
the conclusion that his vocation in the field of propaganda lay not
in speaking, but in writing. But all the pamphlets he planned did not
work out somehow. Whatever he attempted to put down on paper, according
to him, was too drawn out, artificial in tone and style, and once or
twice—oh horror! he actually found himself wandering off into verse, or
on a sceptical, personal effusion. He even decided to speak about this
difficulty to Mariana, a very sure sign of confidence and intimacy! He
was again surprised to find her sympathetic, not towards his literary
attempts, certainly, but to the moral weakness he was suffering from,
a weakness with which she, too, was somewhat familiar. Mariana’s
contempt for aestheticism was no less strong than his, but for all that
the main reason why she did not accept Markelov was because there was
not the slightest trace of the aesthetic in his nature! She did not
for a moment admit this to herself. It is often the case that what is
strongest in us remains only a half-suspected secret.
Thus the days went by slowly, with little variety, but with sufficient
interest.
A curious change was taking place in Nejdanov. He felt dissatisfied with
himself, that is, with his inactivity, and his words had a constant ring
of bitter self-reproach. But in the innermost depths of his being there
lurked a sense of happiness very soothing to his soul. Was it a result
of the peaceful country life, the summer, the fresh air, dainty food,
beautiful home, or was it due to the fact that for the first time in
his life he was tasting the sweetness of contact with a woman’s soul?
It would be difficult to say. But he felt happy, although he complained,
and quite sincerely, to his friend Silin.
The mood, however, was abruptly destroyed in a single day.
On the morning of this day Nejdanov received a letter from Vassily
Nikolaevitch, instructing him, together with Markelov, to lose no
time in coming to an understanding with Solomin and a certain merchant
Golushkin, an Old Believer, living at S. This letter upset Nejdanov very
much; it contained a note of reproach at his inactivity. The bitterness
which had shown itself only in his words now rose with full force from
the depths of his soul.
Kollomietzev came to dinner, disturbed and agitated. “Would you believe
it!” he shouted almost in tears, “what horrors I’ve read in the papers!
My friend, my beloved Michael, the Servian prince, has been assassinated
by some blackguards in Belgrade. This is what these Jacobins and
revolutionists will bring us to if a firm stop is not put to them all!”
Sipiagin permitted himself to remark that this horrible murder was
probably not the work of Jacobins, “of whom there could hardly be any in
Servia,” but might have been committed by some of the followers of the
Karageorgievsky party, enemies of Obrenovitch. Kollomietzev would not
hear of this, and began to relate, in the same tearful voice, how the
late prince had loved him and what a beautiful gun he had given him!
Having spent himself somewhat and got rather irritable, he at last
turned from foreign Jacobins to home-bred nihilists and socialists, and
ended by flying into a passion. He seized a large roll, and breaking it
in half over his soup plate, in the manner of the stylish Parisian in
the “Café-Riche,” announced that he would like to tear limb from limb,
reduce to ashes, all those who objected to anybody or to anything! These
were his very words. “It is high time! High time!” he announced, raising
the spoon to his mouth; “yes, high time!” he repeated, giving his glass
to the servant, who was pouring out sherry. He spoke reverentially about
the great Moscow publishers, and _Ladislas, notre bon et cher Ladislas_,
did not leave his lips. At this point, he fixed his eyes on Nejdanov,
seeming to say: “There, this is for you! Make what you like of it! I
mean this for you! And there’s a lot more to come yet!” The latter,
no longer able to contain himself, objected at last, and began in a
slightly unsteady tone of voice (not due to fear, of course) defending
the ideals, the hopes, the principles of the modern generation.
Kollomietzev soon went into a squeak—his anger always expressed itself
in falsetto—and became abusive. Sipiagin, with a stately air, began
taking Nejdanov’s part; Valentina Mihailovna, of course, sided with her
husband; Anna Zaharovna tried to distract Kolia’s attention, looking
furiously at everybody; Mariana did not move, she seemed turned to
stone.
Nejdanov, hearing the name of _Ladislas_ pronounced at least for the
twentieth time, suddenly flared up and thumping the palm of his hand on
the table burst out:
“What an authority! As if we do not know who this Ladislas is! A born
spy, nothing more!”
“W-w-w-what—what—did you say?” Kollomietzev stammered cut, choking
with rage. “How dare you express yourself like that of a man who is
respected by such people as Prince Blasenkramf and Prince Kovrishkin!”
Nejdanov shrugged his shoulders.
“A very nice recommendation! Prince Kovrishkin, that enthusiastic
flunky—”
“Ladislas is my friend,” Kollomietzev screamed, “my comrade—and I—”
“So much the worse for you,” Nejdanov interrupted him. “It means that
you share his way of thinking, in which case my words apply to you too.”
Kollomietzev turned deadly pale with passion.
“W-what? How? You—ought to be—on the spot—”
“What would you like to do with me _on the spot_?” Nejdanov asked with
sarcastic politeness. Heaven only knows what this skirmish between these
two enemies might have led to, had not Sipiagin himself put a stop to it
at the very outset. Raising his voice and putting on a serious air, in
which it was difficult to say what predominated most, the gravity of an
important statesman or the dignity of a host, he announced firmly that
he did not wish to hear at his table such immoderate expressions, that
he had long ago made it a rule, a sacred rule, he added, to respect
every sort of conviction, so long as (at this point he raised his
forefinger ornamented with a signet ring) it came within the limits of
decent behaviour; that if he could not help, on the one hand, condemning
Mr. Nejdanov’s intemperate words, for which only his extreme youth could
be blamed, he could not, on the other, agree with Mr. Kollomietzev’s
embittered attack on people of an opposite camp, an attack, he felt
sure, that was only due to an over-amount of zeal for the general
welfare of society.
“Under my roof,” he wound up, “under the Sipiagin’s roof, there are
no Jacobins and no spies, only honest, well-meaning people, who, once
learning to understand one another, would most certainly clasp each
other by the hand!”
Neither Nejdanov nor Kollomietzev ventured on another word, but they
did not, however, clasp each other’s hands. Their moment for a mutual
understanding had not arrived. On the contrary, they had never yet
experienced such a strong antipathy to one another.
Dinner ended in an awkward, unpleasant silence. Sipiagin attempted to
relate some diplomatic anecdote, but stopped half-way through. Mariana
kept looking down at her plate persistently, not wishing to betray her
sympathy with what Nejdanov had said. She was by no means afraid, but
did not wish to give herself away before Madame Sipiagina. She felt
the latter’s keen, penetrating glance fixed on her. And, indeed,
Madame Sipiagina did not take her eyes either off her or Nejdanov. His
unexpected outburst at first came as a surprise to the intelligent
lady, but the next moment a light suddenly dawned upon her, so that she
involuntarily murmured, “Ah!” She suddenly divined that Nejdanov was
slipping away from her, this same Nejdanov who, a short time ago, was
ready to come to her arms. “Something has happened.... Is it Mariana? Of
course it’s Mariana...She likes him... and he—”
“Something must be done.” Thus she concluded her reflections, while
Kollomietzev was choking with indignation. Even when playing preference
two hours later, he pronounced the word “Pass!” or “I buy!” with an
aching heart. A hoarse tremulo of wounded pride could be detected in his
voice, although he pretended to scorn such things! Sipiagin was the only
one really pleased with the scene. It had afforded him an opportunity of
showing off the power of his eloquence and of calming the rising storm.
He knew Latin, and Virgil’s _Quos ego_ was not unfamiliar to him. He did
not consciously compare himself to Neptune, but thought of him with a
kind of sympathetic feeling.