As soon as it was convenient for him to do so, Nejdanov retired to his
own room and locked himself in. He did not want to see anyone, anyone
except Mariana. Her room was situated at the very end of a long
corridor, intersecting the whole of the upper story. Nejdanov had only
once been there for a few moments, but it seemed to him that she would
not mind if he knocked at her door, now that she even wished to speak to
him herself. It was already fairly late, about ten o’clock. The host and
hostess had not considered it necessary to disturb him after what had
taken place at the dinner table. Valentina Mihailovna inquired once
or twice about Mariana, as she too had disappeared soon after dinner.
“Where is Mariana Vikentievna?” she asked first in Russian, then in
French, addressing herself to no one in particular, but rather to the
walls, as people often do when greatly astonished, but she soon became
absorbed in the game.
Nejdanov paced up and down the room several times, then turned down the
corridor and knocked gently at Mariana’s door. There was no response. He
knocked again—then he turned the handle of the door. It was locked.
But he had hardly got back to his own room and sat down, when the door
creaked softly and Mariana’s voice was heard: “Alexai Dmitritch, was
that _you_ came to me?”
He jumped up instantly and rushed out into the corridor. Mariana was
standing at his door with a candle in her hand, pale and motionless.
“Yes... I—” he murmured.
“Come,” she said, turning down the corridor, but before reaching the end
she stopped and pushed open a low door. Nejdanov looked into a small,
almost bare room.
“We had better go in here, Alexai Dmitritch, no one will disturb us
here.”
Nejdanov obeyed. Mariana put the candlestick on a window-sill and turned
to him.
“I understand why you wanted to see me,” she began. “It is wretched for
you to live in this house, and for me too.”
“Yes, I wanted to see you, Mariana Vikentievna,” Nejdanov replied, “but
I do not feel wretched here since I’ve come to know you.”
Mariana smiled pensively.
“Thank you, Alexai Dmitritch. But tell me, do you really intend stopping
here after all that has happened?”
“I don’t think they will keep me—I shall be dismissed,” Nejdanov
replied.
“But don’t you intend going away of your own accord?”
“I... No!”
“Why not?”
“Do you want to know the truth? Because _you_ are here.” Mariana
lowered her head and moved a little further down the room.
“Besides,” Nejdanov continued, “I _must_ stay here. You know
nothing—but I want—I feel that I must tell you everything.” He
approached Mariana and seized her hand; she did not take it away, but
only looked straight into his face. “Listen!” he exclaimed with sudden
force, “Listen!”
And instantly, without stopping to sit down, although there were two
or three chairs in the room, still standing before her and holding her
hand, with heated enthusiasm and with an eloquence, surprising even to
himself, he began telling her all his plans, his intentions, his
reason for having accepted Sipiagin’s offer, about all his connections,
acquaintances, about his past, things that he had always kept hidden
from everybody. He told her about Vassily Nikolaevitch’s letters,
everything—even about Silin! He spoke hurriedly, without a single pause
or the smallest hesitation, as if he were reproaching himself for not
having entrusted her with all his secrets before—as if he were
begging her pardon. She listened to him attentively, greedily; she
was bewildered at first, but this feeling soon wore off. Her heart was
overflowing with gratitude, pride, devotion, resoluteness. Her face and
eyes shone; she laid her other hand on Nejdanov’s—her lips parted in
ecstasy. She became marvellously beautiful!
He ceased at last, and suddenly seemed to see _this_ face for the first
time, although it was so dear and so familiar to him. He gave a deep
sigh.
“Ah! how well I did to tell you everything!” He was scarcely able to
articulate the words.
“Yes, how well—how well!” she repeated, also in a whisper. She imitated
him unconsciously—her voice, too, gave way. “And it means,” she
continued, “that I am at your disposal, that I want to be useful to your
cause, that I am ready to do anything that may be necessary, go wherever
you may want me to, that I have always longed with my whole soul for all
the things that you want—”
She also ceased. Another word—and her emotion would have dissolved into
tears. All the strength and force of her nature suddenly softened as
wax. She was consumed with a thirst for activity, for self-sacrifice,
for immediate self-sacrifice.
A sound of footsteps was heard from the other side of the door—light,
rapid, cautious footsteps.
Mariana suddenly drew herself up and disengaged her hands; her mood
changed, she became quite cheerful, a certain audacious, scornful
expression flitted across her face.
“I know who is listening behind the door at this moment,” she remarked,
so loudly that every word could be heard distinctly in the corridor;
“Madame Sipiagina is listening to us... but it makes no difference to
me.”
The footsteps ceased.
“Well?” Mariana asked, turning to Nejdanov. “What shall I do? How shall
I help you? Tell me... tell me quickly! What shall I do?”
“I don’t know yet,” Nejdanov replied. “I have received a note from
Markelov—”
“When did you receive it? When?”
“This evening. He and I must go and see Solomin at the factory
tomorrow.”
“Yes... yes.... What a splendid man Markelov is! Now he’s a real
friend!”
“Like me?”
“No—not like you.”
“How?”
She turned away suddenly.
“Oh! Don’t you understand what you have become for me, and what I am
feeling at this moment?”
Nejdanov’s heart beat violently; he looked down. This girl who loved
him—a poor, homeless wretch, who trusted him, who was ready to
follow him, pursue the same cause together with him—this wonderful
girl—Mariana—became for Nejdanov at this moment the incarnation of
all earthly truth and goodness—the incarnation of the love of mother,
sister, wife, all the things he had never known; the incarnation of his
country, happiness, struggle, freedom!
He raised his head and encountered her eyes fixed on him again.
Oh, how this sweet, bright glance penetrated to his very soul!
“And so,” he began in an unsteady voice, “I am going away tomorrow....
And when I come back, I will tell... you—” (he suddenly felt it awkward
to address Mariana as “you”) “tell you everything that is decided upon.
From now on everything that I do and think, everything, I will tell thee
first.”
“Oh, my dear!” Mariana exclaimed, seizing his hand again. “I promise
thee the same!”
The word “thee” escaped her lips just as simply and easily as if they
had been old comrades.
“Have you got the letter?”
“Here it is.”
Mariana scanned the letter and looked up at him almost reverently.
“Do they entrust you with such important commissions?” He smiled in
reply and put the letter back in his pocket. “How curious,” he said, “we
have come to know of our love, we love one another—and yet we have not
said a single word about it.”
“There is no need,” Mariana whispered, and suddenly threw her arms
around his neck and pressed her head closely against his breast. They
did not kiss—it would have seemed to them too commonplace and rather
terrible—but instantly took leave of one another, tightly clasping each
other’s hands.
Mariana returned for the candle which she had left on the window-sill
of the empty room. Only then a sort of bewilderment came over her; she
extinguished the candle and, gliding quickly along the dark corridor,
entered her own room, undressed and went to bed in the soothing
darkness.