On awakening the following morning, Nejdanov did not feel the slightest
embarrassment at what had taken place the previous night, but was, on
the contrary, filled with a sort of quiet joy, as if he had fulfilled
something which ought to have been done long ago. Asking for two days’
leave from Sipiagin, who consented readily, though with a certain amount
of severity, Nejdanov set out for Markelov’s. Before his departure he
managed to see Mariana. She was also not in the least abashed, looked
at him calmly and resolutely, and called him “dear” quite naturally.
She was very much concerned about what he might hear at Markelov’s, and
begged him to tell her everything.
“Of course!” he replied. “After all,” he thought, “why should we be
disturbed? In our friendship personal feeling played only... a secondary
part, and we are united forever. In the name of the cause? Yes, in the
name of the cause!”
Thus Nejdanov thought, and he did not himself suspect how much truth and
how much falsehood there lay in his reflections.
He found Markelov in the same weary, sullen frame of mind. After a very
impromptu dinner they set out in the well-known carriage to the merchant
Falyeva’s cotton factory where Solomin lived. (The second side horse
harnessed to the carriage was a young colt that had never been in
harness before. Markelov’s own horse was still a little lame.)
Nejdanov’s curiosity had been aroused. He very much wanted to become
closer acquainted with a man about whom he had heard so much of late.
Solomin had been informed of their coming, so that as soon as the two
travellers stopped at the gates of the factory and announced who they
were, they were immediately conducted into the hideous little wing
occupied by the “engineering manager.” He was at that time in the
main body of the building, and while one of the workmen ran to fetch
him, Nejdanov and Markelov managed to go up to the window and look
around. The factory was apparently in a very flourishing condition
and over-loaded with work. From every corner came the quick buzzing
sound of unceasing activity; the puffing and rattling of machines, the
creaking of looms, the humming of wheels, the whirling of straps, while
trolleys, barrels, and loaded carts were rolling in and out. Orders
were shouted out at the top of the voice amidst the sound of bells and
whistles; workmen in blouses with girdles round their waists, their
hair fastened with straps, work girls in print dresses, hurried quickly
to and fro, harnessed horses were led about.... It represented the hum
of a thousand human beings working with all their might. Everything
went at full speed in fairly regular order, but not only was there
an absence of smartness and neatness, but there was not the smallest
trace or cleanliness to be seen anywhere. On the contrary, in every
corner one was struck by neglect, dirt, grime; here a pane of glass was
broken, there the plaster was coming off; in another place the boards
were loose; in a third, a door gaped wide open. A large filthy puddle
covered with a coating of rainbow-coloured slime stood in the middle
of the main yard; farther on lay a heap of discarded bricks; scraps
of mats and matting, boxes, and pieces of rope lay scattered here and
there; shaggy, hungry-looking dogs wandered to and fro, too listless
to bark; in a corner, under the fence, sat a grimy little boy of about
four, with an enormous belly and dishevelled head, crying hopelessly,
as if he had been forsaken by the whole world; close by a sow likewise
besmeared in soot and surrounded by a medley of little suckling-pigs
was devouring some cabbage stalks; some ragged clothes were stretched
on a line—and such stuffiness and stench! In a word, just like a
Russian factory—not like a French or a German one.
Nejdanov looked at Markelov.
“I have heard so much about Solomin’s superior capabilities,” he began,
“that I confess all this disorder surprises me. I did not expect it.”
“This is not disorder, but the usual Russian slovenliness,” Markelov
replied gloomily. “But all the same, they are turning over millions.
Solomin has to adjust himself to the old ways, to practical things, and
to the owner himself. Have you any idea what Falyeva is like?”
“Not in the least.”
“He is the biggest skinflint in Moscow. A regular bourgeois.”
At this moment Solomin entered the room. Nejdanov was just as
disillusioned about him as he had been about the factory. At the first
glance he gave one the impression of being a Finn or a Swede. He was
tall, lean, broad-shouldered, with colourless eyebrows and eyelashes;
had a long sallow face, a short, rather broad nose, small greenish eyes,
a placid expression, coarse thick lips, large teeth, and a divided chin
covered with a suggestion of down. He was dressed like a mechanic or a
stoker in an old pea-jacket with baggy pockets, with an oil-skin cap on
his head, a woollen scarf round his neck, and tarred boots on his feet.
He was accompanied by a man of about forty in a peasant coat, who had an
extraordinarily lively gipsy-like face, coal-black piercing eyes, with
which he scanned Nejdanov as soon as he entered the room. Markelov was
already known to him. This was Pavel, Solomin’s _factotum_.
Solomin approached the two visitors slowly and without a word, pressed
the hand of each in turn in his own hard bony one. He opened a drawer,
pulled out a sealed letter, which he handed to Pavel, also without
a word, and the latter immediately left the room. Then he stretched
himself, threw away his cap with one wave of the hand, sat down on
a painted wooden stool and, pointing to a couch, begged Nejdanov and
Markelov to be seated.
Markelov first introduced Nejdanov, whom Solomin again shook by the
hand, then he went on to “business,” mentioning Vassily Nikolaevitch’s
letter, which Nejdanov handed to Solomin. And while the latter was
reading it carefully, his eyes moving from line to line, Nejdanov sat
watching him. Solomin was near the window and the sun, already low
in the horizon, was shining full on his tanned face covered with
perspiration, on his fair hair covered with dust, making it sparkle like
a mass of gold. His nostrils quivered and distended as he read, and
his lips moved as though he were forming every word. He held the letter
raised tightly in both hands, and when he had finished returned it to
Nejdanov and began listening to Markelov again. The latter talked until
he had exhausted himself.
“I am afraid,” Solomin began (his hoarse voice, full of youth
and strength, was pleasing to Nejdanov’s ear), “it will be rather
inconvenient to talk here. Why not go to your place? It is only a
question of seven miles. You came in your carriage, did you not?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I suppose you can make room for me. I shall have finished my
work in about an hour, and will be quite free. We can talk things
over thoroughly. You are also free, are you not?” he asked, turning to
Nejdanov.
“Until the day after tomorrow.”
“That’s all right. We can stay the night at your place, Sergai
Mihailovitch, I suppose?”
“Of course you may!”
“Good. I shall be ready in a minute. I’ll just make myself a little more
presentable.”
“And how are things at your factory?” Nejdanov asked significantly.
Solomin looked away.
“We can talk things over thoroughly,” he remarked a second time.
“Please excuse me a moment.... I’ll be back directly.... I’ve forgotten
something.”
He went out. Had he not already produced a good impression on Nejdanov,
the latter would have thought that he was backing out, but such an idea
did not occur to him.
An hour later, when from every story, every staircase and door of the
enormous building, a noisy crowd of workpeople came streaming out, the
carriage containing Markelov, Nejdanov, and Solomin drove out of the
gates on to the road.
“Vassily Fedotitch! Is it to be done?” Pavel shouted after Solomin, whom
he had accompanied to the gate.
“No, not now,” Solomin replied. “He wanted to know about some night
work,” he explained, turning to his companions.
When they reached Borsionkov they had some supper, merely for the sake
of politeness, and afterwards lighted cigars and began a discussion, one
of those interminable, midnight Russian discussions which in degree and
length are only peculiar to Russians and unequalled by people of any
other nationality. During the discussion, too, Solomin did not come up
to Nejdanov’s expectation. He spoke little—so little that one might
almost have said that he was quite silent. But he listened attentively,
and whenever he made any remark or gave an opinion, did so briefly,
seriously, showing a considerable amount of common-sense. Solomin did
not believe that the Russian revolution was so near at hand, but not
wishing to act as a wet blanket on others, he did not intrude his
opinions or hinder others from making attempts. He looked on from a
distance as it were, but was still a comrade by their side. He knew
the St. Petersburg revolutionists and agreed with their ideas up to a
certain point. He himself belonged to the people, and fully realised
that the great bulk of them, without whom one can do nothing, were still
quite indifferent, that they must first be prepared, by quite different
means and for entirely different ends than the upper classes. So he held
aloof, not from a sense of superiority, but as an ordinary man with a
few independent ideas, who did not wish to ruin himself or others in
vain. But as for listening, there was no harm in that.
Solomin was the only son of a deacon and had five sisters, who were all
married to priests or deacons. He was also destined for the church, but
with his father’s consent threw it up and began to study mathematics,
as he had taken a special liking to mechanics. He entered a factory of
which the owner was an Englishman, who got to love him like his own son.
This man supplied him with the means of going to Manchester, where he
stayed for two years, acquiring an excellent knowledge of the English
language. With the Moscow merchant he had fallen in but a short time
ago. He was exacting with his subordinates, a manner he had acquired
in England, but they liked him nevertheless, and treated him as one of
themselves. His father was very proud of him, and used to speak of him
as a steady sort of man, but was very grieved that he did not marry and
settle down.
During the discussion, as we have already said, Solomin sat silent the
whole time; but when Markelov began enlarging upon the hopes they put
on the factory workers, Solomin remarked, in his usual laconic way, that
they must not depend too much on them, as factory workers in Russia were
not what they were abroad. “They are an extremely mild set of people
here.”
“And what about the peasants?”
“The peasants? There are a good many sweaters and money-lenders among
them now, and there are likely to be more in time. This kind only look
to their own interests, and as for the others, they are as ignorant as
sheep.”
“Then where are we to turn to?” Solomin smiled.
“Seek and ye shall find.”
There was a constant smile on his lips, but the smile was as full of
meaning as the man himself. With Nejdanov he behaved in a very peculiar
manner. He was attracted to the young student and felt an almost tender
sympathy for him. At one part of the discussion, where Nejdanov broke
out into a perfect torrent of words, Solomin got up quietly, moved
across the room with long strides, and shut a window that was standing
open just above Nejdanov’s head.
“You might catch cold,” he observed, in answer to the orator’s look of
amazement.
Nejdanov began to question him about his factory, asking if any
cooperative experiments had been made, if anything had been done so that
the workers might come in for a share of the profits.
“My dear fellow!” Solomin exclaimed, “I instituted a school and a tiny
hospital, and even then the owner struggled like a bear!”
Solomin lost his temper once in real earnest on hearing of some legal
injustice about the suppression of a workman’s association. He banged
his powerful fist on the table so that everything on it trembled,
including a forty-pound weight, which happened to be lying near the ink
pot.
When Markelov and Nejdanov began discussing ways and means of executing
their plans, Solomin listened with respectful curiosity, but did not
pronounce a single word. Their talk lasted until four o’clock in the
morning, when they had touched upon almost everything under the sun.
Markelov again spoke mysteriously of Kisliakov’s untiring journeys and
his letters, which were becoming more interesting than ever. He promised
to show them to Nejdanov, saying that he would probably have to take
them away with him, as they were rather lengthy and written in an
illegible handwriting. He assured him that there was a great deal of
learning in them and even poetry, not of the frivolous kind, but poetry
with a socialistic tendency!
From Kisliakov, Markelov went on to the military, to adjutants, Germans,
even got so far as his articles on the shortcomings of the artillery,
whilst Nejdanov spoke about the antagonism between Heine and Borne,
Proudhon, and realism in art. Solomin alone sat listening and
reflecting, the smile never leaving his lips. Without having uttered a
single word, he seemed to understand better than the others where the
essential difficulty lay.
The hour struck four. Nejdanov and Markelov could scarcely stand on
their legs from exhaustion, while Solomin was as fresh as could be. They
parted for the night, having agreed to go to town the next day to see
the merchant Golushkin, an Old Believer, who was said to be very zealous
and promised proselytes.
Solomin doubted whether it was worth while going, but agreed to go in
the end.