Virgin Soil by Ivan S. Turgenev (page 6)

to the scene of action. Just before they reached the village, Nejdanov saw a group of about eight peasants standing by the side of the road at the closed doors of a granary. He instantly jumped out of the cart, rushed up to them, and began shouting at them, thumping his fists and gesticulating for about five minutes. The words “For Freedom! March on! Put the shoulder to the wheel!” could be distinguished from among the rest of his confused words.

The peasants, who had met before the granary for the purpose of discussing how to fill it once more–if only to show that they were doing something (it was the communal granary and consequently empty)–fixed their eyes on Nejdanov and seemed to listen to him with the greatest attention, but they had evidently not understood a word he had said, for no sooner was his back turned, shouting for the last time “Freedom!” as he rushed away, when one of them, the most sagacious of the lot, shook his head saying, “What a severe one!” “He must be an officer,” another remarked, to which the wise one said: “We know all about that–he doesn’t talk for nothing. We’ll have to pay the piper.”

“Heavens! what nonsense this all is! ” Nejdanov thought to himself, as he sat down next to Pavel in the cart. “But then none of us know how to get at the people–perhaps this is the right way after all! Who knows? Go on! Does your heart ache? Let it!”

They found themselves in the main street of the village in the middle of which a number of people were gathered together before a tavern. Nejdanov, paying no heed to Pavel, who was trying to hold him back, leapt down from the cart with a cry of “Brothers!” The crowd made way for him and he again began preaching, looking neither to right nor left, as if furious and weeping at the same time. But things turned out quite differently than with his former attempt at the barn. An enormous fellow with a clean- shaven, vicious face, in a short greasy coat, high boots, and a sheepskin cap, came up to him and clapped him on the shoulder.

“All right! my fine fellow!” he bawled out in a wheezy voice; “but wait a bit! good deeds must be rewarded. Come along in here. It’ll be much better talking in there.” He pulled Nejdanov into the tavern, the others streamed in after them. “Michaitch!” the fellow shouted, “twopennyworth! My favourite drink! I want to treat a friend. Who he is, what’s his family, and where he’s from, only the devil knows! Drink!” he said, turning to Nejdanov and handing him a heavy, full glass, wet all over on the outside, as though perspiring, “drink, if you really have any feeling for us!” “Drink!” came a chorus of voices. Nejdanov, who seemed as if in a fever, seized the glass and with a cry of ” I drink to you, children!” drank it off at a gulp. Ugh! He drank it off with the same desperate heroism with which he would have flung himself in storming a battery or on a line of bayonets. But what was happening to him? Something seemed to have struck his spine, his legs, burned his throat, his chest, his stomach, made the tears come into his eyes. A shudder of disgust passed all over him. He began shouting at the top of his voice to drown the throbbing in his head. The dark tavern room suddenly became hot and thick and suffocating–and people, people everywhere! Nejdanov began talking, talking incessantly, shouting furiously, in exasperation, shaking broad rough hands, kissing prickly beards. . . . The enormous fellow in the greasy coat kissed him too, nearly breaking his ribs. This fellow turned out to be a perfect fiend. “I’ll wring the neck,” he shouted, “I’ll wring the neck of anyone who dares to offend our brother! And what’s more, I’ll make mincemeat of him too . . . I’ll make him cry out! That’s nothing to me. I was a butcher and know how to do such jobs!” At this he held up an enormous fist covered with freckles. Someone again shouted, “Drink!” and Nejdanov again swallowed a glass of the filthy poison. But this second time was truly awful! Blunt hooks seemed to be tearing him to pieces inside. His head was in a whirl, green circles swam before his eyes. A hubbub arose . . . 0h horror! a third glass. Was it possible he emptied that too? He seemed to be surrounded by purple noses, dusty heads of hair, tanned necks covered with nets of wrinkles. Rough hands seized him. “Go on!” they bawled out in angry voices, “talk away! The day before yesterday another stranger talked like that. Go on.” The earth seemed reeling under Nejdanov’s feet, his voice sounded strange to his own ears as though coming from a long way off. . . Was it death or what?

And suddenly he felt the fresh air blowing about his face, no more pushing and shoving, no more stench of spirits, sheep-skin, tar, nor leather. . . . He was again sitting beside Pavel in the cart, struggling at first and shouting, “Where are you off to? Stop! I haven’t had time to tell them anything– I must explain…” and then added, “and what are your own ideas on the subject, you sly-boots?”

“It would certainly be well if there were no gentry and the land belonged to us, of course,” Pavel replied, ” but there’s been no such order from the government.” He quietly turned the horse’s head and, suddenly lashing it on the back with the reins, set off at full gallop, away from this din and uproar, back to the factory.

Nejdanov sat dozing, rocked by the motion of the cart, while the wind played pleasantly about his face and kept back gloomy depressing thoughts.

He was annoyed that he had not been allowed to say all that he had wanted to say. Again the wind caressed his overheated face.

And then–a momentary glimpse of Mariana–a burning sense of shame–and sleep, deep, sound sleep. . .

Pavel told Solomin all this afterwards, not hiding the fact that he did not attempt to prevent Nejdanov from drinking– otherwise he could not have got him out of the whirl. The others would not have let him go.

“When he seemed to be getting very feeble, I asked them to let him off, and they agreed to, on condition that I gave them a shilling, so I gave it them.”

“You acted quite rightly,” Solomin said, approvingly.

Nejdanov slept, while Mariana sat at the window looking out into the garden. Strange to say the angry, almost wicked, thoughts that had been tormenting her until Nejdanov and Pavel arrived had completely disappeared. Nejdanov himself was not in the least repulsive or disgusting to her; she was only sorry for him. She knew quite well that he was not a debauchee, a drunkard, and was wondering what she would say to him when he woke up; something friendly and affectionate to minimise the first sting of conscience and shame. “I must try and get him to tell me himself how it all happened,” she thought.

She was not disturbed, but depressed–hopelessly depressed. It seemed as if a breath of the real atmosphere of the world towards which she was striving had blown on her suddenly, making her shudder at its coarseness and darkness. What Moloch was this to which she was going to sacrifice herself?

But no! It could not be! This was merely an incident, it would soon pass over. A momentary impression that had struck her so forcibly because it had happened so unexpectedly. She got up, walked over to the couch on which Nejdanov was lying, took out her pocket-handkerchief and wiped his pale forehead, which was painfully drawn, even in sleep, and smoothed back his hair. . .

She pitied him as a mother pities her suffering child. But it was somewhat painful for her to look at him, so she went quietly into her own room, leaving the door unlocked.

She did not attempt to take any work in her hand. She sat down and thoughts began crowding in upon her. She felt how the time was slipping away, how one minute flew after another, and the sensation was even pleasant to her. Her heart beat fast and again she seemed to be waiting for something.

What has become of Solomin?

The door creaked softly and Tatiana came into the room. “What do you want?” Mariana asked with a shade of annoyance.

“Mariana Vikentievna,” Tatiana began in an undertone, “don’t worry, my dear. Such things happen every day. Besides, the Lord be thanked–“

“I am not worrying at all, Tatiana Osipovna,” Mariana interrupted her. “Alexai Dmitritch is a little indisposed, nothing very serious!”

“That’s all right! I wondered why you didn’t come, and thought there might be something the matter with you. But still I wouldn’t have come in to you. It’s always best not to interfere. But someone has come– a little lame man, the Lord knows who he is– and demands to see Alexai Dmitritch! I wonder what for? This morning that female came for him and now this little cripple. ‘If Alexai Dmitritch is not at home,’ he says, ‘then I must see Vassily Fedotitch! I won’t go away without seeing him. It’s on a very urgent matter.’ We wanted to get rid of him, as we did of that woman, told him Vassily Fedotitch was not at home, but he is determined to see him even if he has to wait until midnight. There he is walking about in the yard. Come and have a look at him through the little window in the corridor. Perhaps you’ll recognise him.”

Mariana followed Tatiana out into the corridor, and on passing Nejdanov was again struck by that painful frown on his forehead and passed her pocket-handkerchief over it a second time.

Through the dusty little window she caught a glimpse of the visitor whom Tatiana had spoken of. He was unknown to her. At this moment Solomin appeared from a corner of the house.

The little cripple rushed up to him and extended his hand. Solomin pressed it. He was obviously acquainted with him. They both disappeared. . . Soon their footsteps were heard coming up the stairs. They were coming to see her.

Mariana fled into her own room and remained standing in the middle of it, hardly able to breathe. She was mortally afraid . . . but of what? She did not know herself.

Solomin’s head appeared through the door.

“Mariana Vikentievna, can I come in? I have brought someone whom it’s absolutely necessary for you to see.”

Mariana merely nodded her head in reply and behind Solomin in walked– Paklin.

XXXIII

“I AM a friend of your husband’s,” he said, bowing very low, as if anxious to conceal his frightened face, “and also of Vassily Fedotitch. I hear Alexai Dmitritch is asleep and not very well. Unfortunately, I have brought bad news. I have already told Vassily Fedotitch something about it and am afraid decisive measures will have to be taken.

Paklin’s voice broke continually, like that of a man who was tortured by thirst. The items of news he had to communicate were certainly very unpleasant ones. Some peasants had seized Markelov and brought him to the town. The stupid clerk had betrayed Golushkin, who was now under arrest, he in his turn was betraying everything and everybody, wanted to go over to the Orthodox Church, had offered to present a portrait of the Bishop Filaret to the public school, and had already given five thousand roubles to be distributed among crippled soldiers. There was not a shadow of a doubt that he had informed against Nejdanov; the police might make a raid upon the factory any moment. Vassily Fedotitch was also in danger. “As for myself,” Paklin added, “I am surprised that I’m still allowed to roam at large, although it’s true that I’ve never really interested myself in practical politics or taken part in any schemes. I have taken advantage of this oversight on the part of the police to put you on your guard and find out what had best be done to avoid any unpleasantness.”

Mariana listened to Paklin to the end. She did not seem alarmed; on the other hand she was quite calm. But something must really be done! She fixed her eyes on Solomin.

He was also composed; only around his lips there was the faintest movement of the muscles; but it was not his habitual smile.

Solomin understood the meaning of Mariana’s glance; she waited for him to say what had best be done.

“It’s a very awkward business,” he began; “I don’t think it would do Nejdanov any harm to go into hiding for a time. But, by the way, how did you get to know that he was here, Mr. Paklin?”

Paklin gave a wave of the hand.

“A certain individual told me. He had seen him preaching about the neighbourhood and had followed him, though with no evil intent. He is a sympathiser. Excuse me,” he added, turning to Mariana, “is it true that our friend Nejdanov has been very . . . very careless?”

“It’s no good blaming him now,” Solomin began again. “What a pity we can’t talk things over with him now, but by tomorrow he will be all right again. The police don’t do things as quickly as you seem to imagine. You will have to go away with him, Mariana Vikentievna.”

“Certainly,” she said resolutely, a lump rising in her throat.

“Yes,” Solomin said, “we must think it over, consider ways and means.”

“May I make a suggestion?” Paklin began. “It entered my head as I was coming along here. I must tell you, by the way, that I dismissed the cabman from the town a mile away from here.”

“What is your suggestion?” Solomin asked.

“Let me have some horses at once and I’ll gallop off to the Sipiagins.”

“To the Sipiagins!” Mariana exclaimed. “Why?”

“You will see.”

“But do you know them?”

“Not at all! But listen. Do think over my suggestion thoroughly. It seems to me a brilliant one. Markelov is Sipiagin’s brother- in-law, his wife’s brother, isn’t that so? Would this gentleman really make no attempt to save him? And as for Nejdanov himself, granting that Mr. Sipiagin is most awfully angry with him, still he has become a relation of his by marrying you. And the danger hanging over our friend–“

“I am not married,” Mariana observed.

Paklin started.

“What? Haven’t managed it all this time! Well, never mind,” he added, “one can pretend a little. All the same, you will get married directly. There seems nothing else to be done! Take into consideration the fact that up until now Sipiagin has not persecuted you, which shows him to be a man capable of a certain amount of generosity. I see that you don’t like the expression– well, a certain amount of pride. Why should we not take advantage of it? Consider for yourself!”

Mariana raised her head and passed her hand through her air.

“You can take advantage of whatever you like for Markelov, Mr. Paklin… or for yourself, but Alexai and I do not desire the protection or patronage of Mr. Sipiagin. We did not leave his house only to go knocking at his door as beggars. The pride and generosity of Mr. Sipiagin and his wife have nothing whatever to do with us!”

“Such sentiments are extremely praiseworthy,” Paklin replied (” How utterly crushed!” he thought to himself), “though, on the other hand, if you think of it . . . However, I am ready to obey you. I will exert myself only on Markelov’s account, our good Markelov! I must say, however, that he is not his blood relation, but only related to him through his wife–while you–“

“Mr Paklin, I beg of you!”

“I’m sorry. . . Only I can’t tell you how disappointing it is– Sipiagin is a very influential man.”

“Have you no fears for yourself?” Solomin asked.

Paklin drew himself up.

“There are moments when one must not think of oneself!” he said proudly. And he was thinking of himself all the while. Poor little man! he wanted to run away as fast as he could. On the strength of the service rendered him, Sipiagin might, if need be, speak a word in his favour. For he too–say what he would–was implicated, he had listened and had chattered a little himself.

“I don’t think your suggestion is a bad one,” Solomin observed at last,” although there is not much hope of success. At any rate there is no harm in trying.”

“Of course not. Supposing they pitch me out by the scruff of the neck, what harm will it do?”

“That won’t matter very much” (“Merci,” Paklin thought to himself). “What is the time? ” Solomin asked. ” Five o’clock. We mustn’t dawdle. You shall have the horses directly. Pavel!”

But instead of Pavel, Nejdanov appeared in the doorway. He staggered and steadied himself on the doorpost. He opened his mouth feebly, looked around with his glassy eyes, comprehending nothing. Paklin was the first to approach him.

“Aliosha!” he exclaimed, “don’t you know me?” Nejdanov stared at him, blinking slowly.

“Paklin? ” he said at last.

“Yes, it is I. Aren’t you well?”

“No . . . I’m not well. But why are you here?”

“Why?” . . . But at this moment Mariana stealthily touched Paklin on the elbow. He turned around and saw that she was making signs to him. “Oh, yes! ” he muttered. “Yes.. . . You see, Aliosha,” he added aloud, “I’ve come here upon a very important matter and must go away at once. Solomin will tell you all about it–and Mariana–Mariana Vikentievna. They both fully approve of what I am going to do. The thing concerns us all. No, no,” he put in hastily in response to a look and gesture from Mariana. “The thing concerns Markelov; our mutual friend Markelov; it concerns him alone. But I must say goodbye now. Every minute is precious. Goodbye, Aliosha . . . We’ll see each other again sometime. Vassily Fedotitch, can you come with me to see about the horses?”

“Certainly. Mariana, I wanted to ask you to be firm, but that is not necessary. You’re a brick!”

“Yes, yes,” Paklin chimed in, “you are just like a Roman maiden in Cato’s time! Cato of Utica! We must be off, Vassily Fedotitch, come along!”

“There’s plenty of time,” Solomin observed with a faint smile. Nejdanov stood on one side to allow them room to pass out, but there was the same vacant expression in his eyes. After they had gone he took a step or two forward and sat down on a chair facing Mariana.

“Alexai,” she began, “everything has been found out. Markelov has been seized by the very peasants he was trying to better, and is now under arrest in this town, and so is the merchant with whom you dined once. I dare say the police will soon be here for us too. Paklin has gone to Sipiagin.”

“Why?” Nejdanov asked in a scarcely audible whisper. But there was a keen look in his eyes–his face assumed it’s habitual expression. The stupor had left him instantly.

“To try and find out if he would be willing to intercede.”

Nejdanov sat up straight.

“For us?

“No, for Markelov. He wanted to ask him to intercede for us too . . . but I wouldn’t let him. Have I done well, Alexai?

“Have you done well?” Nejdanov asked and without rising from his chair, stretched out his arms to her. “Have you done well?” he repeated, drawing her close to him, and pressing his face against her waist, suddenly burst into tears.

“What is the matter? What is the matter with you?” Mariana exclaimed. And as on the day when he had fallen on his knees before her, trembling and breathless in a torrent of passion, she laid both her hands on his trembling head. But what she felt now was quite different from what she had felt then. Then she had given herself up to him–had submitted to him and only waited to hear what he would say next, but now she pitied him and only wondered what she could do to calm him.

“What is the matter with you?” she repeated. “Why are you crying? Not because you came home in a somewhat. . . strange condition? It can’t be! Or are you sorry for Markelov–afraid for me, for yourself? Or is it for our lost hopes? You did not really expect that everything would go off smoothly!”

Nejdanov suddenly lifted his bead.

“It’s not that, Mariana,” he said, mastering his sobs by an effort, “I am not afraid for either of us . . . but . . . I am sorry.

“For whom?”

“For you, Mariana! I am sorry that you should have united your fate with a man who is not worthy of you.”

“Why not?”

“If only because he can be crying at a moment as this!”

“It is not you but your nerves that are crying!”

“You can’t separate me from my nerves! But listen, Mariana, look me in the face; can you tell me now that you do not regret–“

“What?”

“That you ran away with me.”

“No!”

“And would you go with me further? Anywhere?”

“Yes!”

“Really? Mariana . . . really?

“Yes. I have given you my word, and so long as you remain the man I love–I shall not take it back.”

Nejdanov remained sitting on the chair, Mariana standing before him. His arms were about her waist, her’s were resting on his shoulders.

“Yes, no,” Nejdanov thought . . . “when I last held her in my arms like this, her body was at least motionless, but now I can feel it–against her will, perhaps– shrink away from me gently!”

He loosened his arms and Mariana did in fact move away from him a little.

“If that’s so,” he said aloud, “if we must run away from here before the police find us . . . I think it wouldn’t be a bad thing if we were to get married. We may not find another such accommodating priest as Father Zosim!”

“I am quite ready,” Mariana observed.

Nejdanov gave her a searching glance.

“A Roman maiden!” he exclaimed with a sarcastic half-smile. “What a feeling of duty!”

Mariana shrugged her shoulders.

“We must tell Solomin.”

“Yes . . . Solomin . . .” Nejdanov drawled out. “But he is also in danger. The police would arrest him too. It seems to me that he also took part in things and knew even more than we did.”

“I don’t know about that,” Mariana observed. “He never speaks of himself!

“Not as I do!” Nejdanov thought. “That was what she meant to imply. Solomin . . . Solomin!” he added after a pause. “Do you know, Mariana, I should not be at all sorry if you had linked your fate forever with a man like Solomin . . . or with Solomin himself.”

Mariana gave Nejdanov a penetrating glance in her turn. “You had no right to say that,” she observed at last.

“I had no right! In what sense am I to take that? Does it mean that you love me, or that I ought not to touch upon this question generally speaking?”

“You had no right,” Mariana repeated.

Nejdanov lowered his head.

“Mariana!” he exclaimed in a slightly different tone of voice.

“Yes?

“If I were to ask you now … now . . . you know what . . . But no, I will not ask anything of you . . goodbye.”

He got up and went out; Mariana did not detain him. Nejdanov sat down on the couch and covered his face with his hands. He was afraid of his own thoughts and tried to stop thinking. He felt that some sort of dark, underground hand had clutched at the very root of his being and would not let him go. He knew that the dear, sweet creature he had left in the next room would not come out to him and he dared not go to her. What for? What would he say to her?

Firm, rapid footsteps made him open his eyes. Solomin passed through his room, knocked at Mariana’s door, and went in.

“Honour where honour is due!” Nejdanov whispered bitterly.

XXXIV

IT was already ten o’clock in the evening; in the drawing-room of the Arjanov house Sipiagin, his wife, and Kollomietzev were sitting over a game at cards when a footman entered and announced that an unknown gentleman, a certain Mr. Paklin, wished to see Boris Andraevitch upon a very urgent business.

“So late!” Valentina Mihailovna exclaimed, surprised.

What? “Boris Andraevitch asked, screwing up his handsome nose; “what did you say the gentleman’s name was?”

Mr. Paklin, sir.”

“Paklin!” Kollomietzev exclaimed; “a real country name. Paklin . . . Solomin . . . De vrais noms ruraux, hein?”

“Did you say,” Boris Andraevitch continued, still turned towards the footman with his nose screwed up, “that the business was an urgent one?”

“The gentleman said so, sir.”

“H’m. . . . No doubt some beggar or intriguer.”

“Or both,” Kollomietzev chimed in.

“Very likely. Ask him into my study.” Boris Andraevitch got up. “Pardon, ma bonne. Have a game of ecarte till I come back, unless you would like to wait for me. I won’t he long.”

“Nous causerons . . . Allez!” Kollomietzev said.

When Sipiagin entered his study and caught sight of Paklin’s poor, feeble little figure meekly leaning up against the door between the wall and the fireplace, he was seized by that truly ministerial sensation of haughty compassion and fastidious condescension so characteristic of the St. Petersburg bureaucrat. “Heavens! What a miserable little wretch!” he thought; “and lame too, I believe!”

“Sit down, please,” he said aloud, making use of some of his most benevolent baritone notes and throwing back his head, sat down before his guest did. “You are no doubt tired from the journey. Sit down, please, and tell me about this important matter that has brought you so late.”

“Your excellency,” Paklin began, cautiously dropping into an arm- chair, “I have taken the liberty of coming to you–“

“Just a minute, please,” Sipiagin interrupted him, “I think I’ve seen you before. I never forget faces. But er. . . er . . . really… where have I seen you?”

You are not mistaken, your excellency. I had the honour of meeting you in St. Petersburg at a certain person’s who . . . who has since . . . unfortunately . . . incurred your displeasure–“

Sipiagin jumped up from his chair.

“Why, at Mr. Nejdanov’s? I remember now. You haven’t come from him by the way, have you?”

“Not at all, your excellency; on the contrary . . .I–“

Sipiagin sat down again.

“That’s good. For had you come on his account I should have asked you to leave the house at once. I cannot allow any mediator between myself and Mr. Nejdanov. Mr. Nejdanov has insulted me in a way which cannot be forgotten . . . I am above any feelings of revenge, but I don’t wish to know anything of him, nor of the girl– more depraved in mind than in heart ” (Sipiagin had repeated this phrase at least thirty times since Mariana ran away), “who could bring herself to abandon a home that had sheltered her, to become the mistress of a nameless adventurer! It is enough for them that I am content to forget them.”

At this last word Sipiagin waved his wrist into space.

“I forget them, my dear sir!”

“Your excellency, I have already told you that I did not come from them in particular, but I may inform your excellency that they are legally married . . .” (“It’s all the same,” Paklin thought; “I said that I would lie and so here I am. Never mind!”)

Sipiagin moved his head from left to right on the back of his chair.

“It does not interest me in the least, sir. It only makes one foolish marriage the more in the world– that’s all. But what is this urgent matter to which I am indebted for the pleasure of your visit?”

“Ugh! you cursed director of a department!” Paklin thought, “I’ll soon make you pull a different face! “Your wife’s brother,” he said aloud, “Mr. Markelov, has been seized by the peasants whom he had been inciting to rebellion, and is now under arrest in the governor’s house.”

Sipiagin jumped up a second time.

“What . . . what did you say?” he blurted out, not at all in his accustomed ministerial baritones, but in an extremely undignified manner.

“I said that your brother-in-law has been seized and is in chains. As soon as I heard of it, I procured horses and came straight away to tell you. I thought that I might be rendering a service to you and to the unfortunate man whom you may be able to save!”

“I am extremely grateful to you,” Sipiagin said in the same feeble tone of voice, and violently pressing a bell, shaped like a mushroom, he filled the whole house with its clear metallic ring. “I am extremely grateful to you,” he repeated more sharply, “but I must tell you that a man who can bring himself to trample under foot all laws, human and divine, were he a hundred times related to me– is in my eyes not unfortunate; he is a criminal!”

A footman came in quickly.

“Your orders, sir?

“The carriage! the carriage and four horses this minute! I am going to town. Philip and Stepan are to come with me!” The footman disappeared. “Yes, sir, my brother-in-law is a criminal! I am going to town not to save him! Oh, no!”

“But, your excellency–“

“Such are my principles, my dear sir, and I beg you not to annoy me by your objections!”

Sipiagin began pacing up and down the room, while Paklin stared with all his might. “Ugh! you devil!” he thought, “I heard that you were a liberal, but you’re just like a hungry lion!”

The door was flung open and Valentina Mihailovna came into the room with hurried steps, followed by Kollomietzev.

“What is the matter, Boris? Why have you ordered the carriage? Are you going to town? What has happened?”

Sipiagin went up to his wife and took her by the arm, between the elbow and wrist. “Il faut vous armer de courage, ma chere. Your brother has been arrested.”

“My brother? Sergai? What for?”

He has been preaching socialism to the peasants.” (Kollomietzev gave a faint little scream.) “Yes! preaching revolutionary ideas, making propaganda! They seized him–and gave him up. He is now under arrest in the town.”

“Madman! But who told you?”

“This Mr . . . Mr . . . what’s his name? Mr. Konopatin brought the news.”

Valentina Mihailovna glanced at Paklin; the latter bowed dejectedly. (“What a glorious woman!” he thought. Even in such difficult moments . . . alas! how susceptible Paklin was to feminine beauty!)

“And you want to go to town at this hour?”

“I think the governor will still be up.”

“I always said it would end like this,” Kollomietzev put in. “It couldn’t have been otherwise! But what dears our peasants are really! Pardon, madame, c’est votre frere! Mais la verite avant tout!”

“Do you really intend going to town, Boris? ” Valentina Mihailovna asked.

“I feel absolutely certain,” Kollomietzev continued, “that that tutor, Mr. Nejdanov, is mixed up in this. J’en mettrais ma main au feu. It’s all one gang! Haven’t they seized him? Don’t you know?”

Sipiagin waved his wrist again.

“I don’t know–and don’t want to know! By the way,” he added, turning to his wife, ” il parait qu’il sont maries.”

“Who said so? That same gentleman?” Valentina Mihailovna looked at Paklin again, this time with half-closed eyes.

“Yes.”

“In that case,” Kollomietzev put in, “he must know where they are. Do you know where they are? Do you know? Eh? Do you know?”

Kollomietzev took to walking up and down in front of Paklin as if to cut off his way, although the latter had not betrayed the slightest inclination of wanting to run away. “Why don’t you speak? Answer me! Do you know, eh? Do you know?”

“Even if I knew,” Paklin began, annoyed; his wrath had risen up in him at last and his eyes flashed fire: “even if I knew I would not tell you.”

“Oh . . . oh . . .” Kollomietzev muttered. “Do you hear? Do you hear? This one too–this one too is of their gang!”

“The carriage is ready!” a footman announced loudly. Sipiagin with a quick graceful movement seized his hat, but Valentina Mihailovna was so insistent in her persuasions for him to put off the journey until the morning and brought so many convincing arguments to bear–such as: that it was pitch dark outside, that everybody in town would be asleep, that he would only upset his nerves and might catch cold–that Sipiagin at length came to agree with her.

“I obey!” he exclaimed, and with the same graceful gesture, not so rapid this time, replaced his hat on the table.

“I shall not want the carriage now,” he said to the footman, “but see that it’s ready at six o’clock in the morning! Do you hear? ‘You can go now! But stay! See that the gentleman’s carriage is sent off and the driver paid… I What? Did you say anything, Mr. Konopatin? I am going to take you to town with me tomorrow, Mr. Konopatin! What did you say? I can’t hear . . . Do you take vodka? Give Mr. Konopatin some vodka! No? You don’t drink? In that case . . . Feodor! take the gentleman into the green room! Goodnight, Mr. Kono-“

Paklin lost all patience.

“Paklin!” he shouted, “my name is Paklin!”

“Oh, yes . . . it makes no difference. A bit alike, you know. What a powerful voice you have for your spare build! Till tomorrow, Mr. Paklin. . . . Have I got it right this time? Simeon, vous viendrez. avec nous?”

“Je crois bien!”

Paklin was conducted into the green room and locked in. He distinctly heard the key turned in the English lock as he got into bed. He scolded himself severely for his “brilliant idea” and slept very badly.

He was awakened early the next morning at half-past five and given coffee. As he drank it a footman with striped shoulder- knots stood over him with the tray in his hand, shifting from one leg to the other as though he were saying, “Hurry up! the gentlemen are waiting!” He was taken downstairs. The carriage was already waiting at the door. Kollomietzev’s open carriage was also there. Sipiagin appeared on the steps in a cloak made of camel’s hair with a round collar. Such cloaks had long ago ceased to be worn except by a certain important dignitary whom Sipiagin pandered to and wished to imitate. On important official occasions he invariably put on this cloak.

Sipiagin greeted Paklin affably, and with an energetic movement of the hand pointed to the carriage and asked him to take his seat. “Mr. Paklin, you are coming with me, Mr. Paklin! Put your bag on the box, Mr. Paklin! I am taking Mr. Paklin,” he said, emphasising the word “Paklin” with special stress on the letter a. “You have an awful name like that and get insulted when people change it for you–so here you are then! Take your fill of it! Mr. Paklin! Paklin!” The unfortunate name rang out clearly in the cool morning air. It was so keen as to make Kollomietzev, who came out after Sipiagin, exclaim several times in French…

“Brrr! brrr! brrr!” He wrapped his cloak more closely about him and seated himself in his elegant carriage with the hood thrown back. (Had his poor friend Michael Obrenovitch, the Servian prince, seen it, he would certainly have bought one like it at Binder’s. . . . “Vous savez Binder, le grand carrossier des Champs Elysees?”)

Valentina Mihailovna, still in her night garments, peeped out from behind the half-open shutters of her bedroom. Sipiagin waved his hand to her from the carriage.

“Are you quite comfortable, Mr. Paklin? Go on!”

“Je vous recommande mon frere, epargnez-le!” Valentina Mihailovna said.

“Soyez tranquille!” Kollomietzev exclaimed, glancing up at her quickly from under the brim of his travelling cap–one of his own special design with a cockade in it–“C’est surtout l’autre, qu’il faut pincer!”

“Go on!” Sipiagin exclaimed again. “You are not cold, Mr. Paklin? Go on!”

The two carriages rolled away.

For about ten minutes neither Sipiagin nor Paklin pronounced a single word. The unfortunate Sila, in his shabby little coat and crumpled cap, looked even more wretched than usual in contrast to the rich background of dark blue silk with which the carriage was upholstered. He looked around in silence at the delicate pale blue blinds, which flew up instantly at the mere press of a button, at the soft white sheep-skin rug at their feet, at the mahogany box in front with a movable desk for letters and even a shelf for books. (Boris Andraevitch never worked in his carriage, but he liked people to think that he did, after the manner of Thiers, who always worked when travelling.) Paklin felt shy. Sipiagin glanced at him once or twice over his clean-shaven cheek, and with a pompous deliberation pulled out of a side- pocket a silver cigar-case with a curly monogram and a Slavonic band and offered him . . . really offered him a cigar, holding it gently between the second and third fingers of a hand neatly clad in an English glove of yellow dogskin.

“I don’t smoke,” Paklin muttered.

“Really!” Sipiagin exclaimed and lighted the cigar himself, an excellent regalia.

“I must tell you . . . my dear Mr. Paklin,” he began, puffing gracefully at his cigar and sending out delicate rings of delicious smoke, “that I am . . . really . . . very grateful to you. I might have . . . seemed . . . a little severe. . . last night . . . which does not really . . . do justice to my character . . . believe me.” (Sipiagin purposely hesitated over his speech.) “But just put yourself in my place, Mr. Paklin!” (Sipiagin rolled the cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other.) “The position I occupy places me . . . so to speak . . . before the public eye, and suddenly, without any warning . . . my wife’s brother . . . compromises himself . . . and me, in this impossible way! Well, Mr. Paklin? But perhaps you think that it’s nothing?”

“I am far from thinking that, your excellency.”

“You don’t happen to know exactly why . . . and where he was arrested?”

“I heard that he was arrested in T. district.”

“Who told you so?”

“A certain person.”

“Of course it could hardly have been a bird. But who was this person?”

“An assistant . . . of the director of the governor’s office–“

“What’s his name?”

“The director’s?”

No, the assistant’s.”

“His name is . . . Ulyashevitch. He is a very honest man, your excellency. As soon as I heard of the affair, I hastened to tell you.”

“Yes, yes. I am very grateful to you indeed. But what utter madness! downright madness! Don’t you think so, Mr. Paklin?”

“Utter madness!” Paklin exclaimed, while the perspiration rolled down his back in a hot stream. “it just shows,” he continued, “the folly of not understanding the peasant. Mr. Markelov, so far as I know him, has a very kind and generous heart, but he has no conception of what the Russian peasant is really like.” (Paklin glanced at Sipiagin who sat slightly turned towards him, gazing at him with a cold, though not unfriendly, light in his eyes.) “The Russian peasant can never be induced to revolt except by taking advantage of that devotion of his to some high authority, some tsar. Some sort of legend must be invented–you remember Dmitrius the pretender–some sort of royal sign must be shown him, branded on the breast.”

“Just like Pugatchev,” Sipiagin interrupted him in a tone of voice which seemed to imply that he had not yet forgotten his history and that it was really not necessary for Paklin to go on. “What madness! what madness! “he added, and became wrapped in the contemplation of the rings of smoke as they rose quickly one after another from the end of his cigar.

“Your excellency,” Paklin began apologetically, “I have just said that I didn’t smoke . . . but it was not true. I do smoke and your cigar smells so nice–“

“Eh? What?” Sipiagin asked as if waking up; and without giving Paklin time to repeat his request, he proved in the most unmistakable manner that he had heard every word, and had merely asked his questions for the sake of dignity, by offering him his cigar-case.

Paklin took a cigar gratefully and lighted it with care.

“Here’s a good opportunity,” he thought, but Sipiagin had anticipated him.

“I remember your saying . . .” he began carelessly, stopping to look at his cigar and pulling his hat lower over his forehead, “you spoke . . . of . . . of that friend of yours, who married my . . . niece. Do you ever see them? They’ve settled not far from here, eh?”

(“Take care! be on your guard, Sila!” Paklin thought.)

“I have only seen them once, your excellency. They are living . . . certainly . . . not very far from here.”

“You quite understand, I hope,” Sipiagin continued in the same tone, “that I can take no further serious interest–as I explained to you–either in that frivolous girl or in your friend. Heaven knows that I have no prejudices, but really, you will agree with me, this is too much! So foolish, you know. However, I suppose they were more drawn together by politics . . .” (“politics!” he repeated, shrugging his shoulders) “than by any other feeling!”

“I think so too, your excellency!”

“Yes, Mr. Nejdanov was certainly revolutionary. To do him justice he made no secret of his opinions.”

“Nejdanov,” Paklin ventured, “may have been carried away, but his heart–“

“Is good,” Sipiagin put in; “I know, like Markelov’s. They all have good hearts. He has no doubt also been mixed up in this affair . . . and will be implicated. . . . I suppose I shall have to intercede for him too!”

Paklin clasped his hands to his breast.

Oh, your excellency! Extend your protection to him! He fully . . . deserves . . . your sympathy.”

Sipiagin snorted.

“You think so?”

“At any rate if not for him . . . for your niece’s sake; for his wife!” (“Heavens! What lies I’m telling,” Paklin thought.)

Sipiagin half-closed his eyes.

“I see that you’re a very devoted friend. That’s a very good quality, very praiseworthy, young man. And so you said they lived in this neighbourhood?”

“Yes, your excellency; in a large establishment–” Here Paklin bit his tongue.

“Why, of course, at Solomin’s! that’s where they are! However, I knew it all along. I’ve been told so; I’ve already been informed.” (Mr. Sipiagin did not know this in the least, and no one had told him, but recollecting Solomin’s visit and their midnight interview, he promptly threw out this bait, which caught Paklin at once.)

“Since you know that,” he began and bit his tongue a second time . . . But it was already too late. A single glance at Sipiagin made him realise that he had been playing with him as a cat plays with a mouse.

“I must say, your excellency,” the unfortunate Paklin stammered out; “I must say, that I really know nothing–“

“But I ask you no questions! Really! What do you take me and yourself for?” Sipiagin asked haughtily, and promptly withdrew into his ministerial heights.

And Paklin again felt himself a mean little ensnared creature. Until that moment he had kept the cigar in the corner of his mouth away from Sipiagin and puffed at it quietly, blowing the smoke to one side; now he took it out of his mouth and ceased smoking altogether.

“My God!” he groaned inwardly, while the perspiration streamed down his back more and more, “what have I done? I have betrayed everything and everybody. . . I have been duped, been bought over by a good cigar!! I am a traitor! What shall I do now to help matters? 0h God!”

But there was nothing to be done. Sipiagin dozed off in a haughty, dignified, ministerial manner, enveloped in his stately cloak.

XXXV

THE governor of S. was one of those good-natured, happy-go-lucky, worldly generals who, endowed with wonderfully clean, snow-white bodies and souls to match, of good breeding and education, are turned out of a mill where they are never ground down to becoming the “shepherds of the people.” Nevertheless they prove themselves capable of a tolerable amount of administrative ability– do little work, but are forever sighing after St. Petersburg and paying court to all the pretty women of the place. These are men who in some unaccountable way become useful to their province and manage to leave pleasant memories behind them. The governor had only just got out of bed, and was comfortably seated before his dressing-table in his night-shirt and silk dressing-gown, bathing his face and neck with eau-de-cologne after having removed a whole collection of charms and coins dangling from it, when he was informed of the arrival of Sipiagin and Kollomietzev upon some urgent business. He was very familiar with Sipiagin, having known him from childhood and constantly run across him in St. Petersburg drawing-rooms, and lately he had begun to ejaculate a respectful “Ah! ” every time his name occurred to him–as if he saw in him a future statesman. Kollomietzev he did not know so well and respected less in consequence of various unpleasant complaints that had been made against him; however, he looked upon him as a man qui fera chemin in any case.

He ordered his guests to be shown into his study, where he soon joined them, as he was, in his silk dressing-gown, and not so much as excusing himself for receiving them in such an unofficial costume, shook hands with them heartily. Only Sipiagin and Kollomietzev appeared in the governor’s study; Paklin remained in the drawing-room. On getting out of the carriage he had tried to slip away, muttering that he had some business at home, but Sipiagin had detained him with a polite firmness (Kollomietzev had rushed up to him and whispered in his ear: “Ne le lacher pas! Tonnerre de tonnerres!”) and taken him in. He had not, however, taken him to the study, but had asked him, with the same polite firmness, to wait in the drawing-room until he was wanted. Even here Paklin had hoped to escape, but a robust gendarme at Kollomietzev’s instruction appeared in the doorway; so Paklin remained.

“I dare say you’ve guessed what has brought me to you, Voldemar,” Sipiagin began.

“No, my dear, no, I can’t,” the amiable Epicurean replied, while a smile of welcome played about his rosy cheeks, showing a glimpse of shiny teeth, half hidden by his silky moustache.

“What? Don’t you know about Markelov?”

“What do you mean? What Markelov?” the governor repeated with the same joyful expression on his face. He did not remember, in the first place, that the man who was arrested yesterday was called Markelov, and, in the second, he had quite forgotten that Sipiagin’s wife had a brother of that name. “But why are you standing, Boris? Sit down. Would you like some tea?”

Sipiagin’s mind was far from tea.

When at last he explained why they had both appeared, the governor uttered an exclamation of pain and struck himself on the forehead, while his face assumed a sympathetic expression.

“Dear me! what a misfortune! And he’s here now–today. . . . You know we never keep that sort with us for more than one night at the outside, but the chief of police is out of town, so your brother-in-law has been detained. He is to be sent on tomorrow. Dear me! what a dreadful thing! What your wife must have gone through! What would you like me to do?”

“I would like to have an interview with him here, if it is not against the law.”

“My dear boy! laws are not made for men like you. I do feel so sorry for you.. . . C’est affreux, tu sais!”

He gave a peculiar ring. An adjutant appeared.

My dear baron, do please make some arrangement there . . .” He told him what he wanted and the baron vanished. “Only think, mon cher ami, the peasants nearly killed him. They tied his hands behind him, flung him in a cart, and brought him here! And he’s not in the least bit angry or indignant with them you know! He was so calm altogether that I was amazed! But you will see for yourself. C’est un fanatique tranquille.”

“Ce sont les pires,” Kollomietzev remarked sarcastically. The governor looked up at him from under his eyebrows. “By the way, I must have a word with you, Simion Petrovitch.”

“Yes; what about?”

“I don’t like things at all–“

“What things?”

“You know that peasant who owed you money and came here to complain–“

“Well? “

“He’s hanged himself.”

“When?”

“It’s of no consequence when; but it’s an ugly affair.”

Kollomietzev merely shrugged his shoulders and moved away to the window with a graceful swing of the body. At this moment the adjutant brought in Markelov.

The governor had been right; he was unnaturally calm. Even his habitual moroseness had given place to an expression of weary indifference, which did not change when he caught sight of his brother-in-law. Only in the glance which he threw on the German adjutant, who was escorting him, there was a momentary flash of the old hatred he felt towards such people. His coat had been torn in several places and hurriedly stitched up with coarse thread; his forehead, eyebrows, and the bridge of his nose were covered with small scars caked with clotted blood. He had not washed, but had combed his hair.

“Sergai Mihailovitch!” Sipiagin began excitedly, taking a step or two towards him and extending his right hand, only so that he might touch him or stop him if he made a movement in advance, “Sergai Mihailovitch! I am not here to tell you of our amazement, our deep distress–you can have no doubt of that! You wanted to ruin yourself and have done so! But I’ve come to tell you . . . that . . . that . . . to give you the chance of hearing sound common-sense through the voice of honour and friendship. You can still mitigate your lot and, believe me, I will do all in my power to help you, as the honoured head of this province can bear witness!” At this point Sipiagin raised his voice. “A real penitence of your wrongs and a full confession without reserve which will be duly presented in the proper quarters–“

“Your excellency,” Markelov exclaimed suddenly, turning towards the governor–the very sound of his voice was calm, though it was a little hoarse; “I thought that you wanted to see me in order to cross-examine me again, but if I have been brought here solely by Mr. Sipiagin’s wish, then please order me to be taken back again. We cannot understand one another. All he says is so much Greek to me.”

“Greek, eh!” Kollomietzev shrieked. “And to set peasants rioting, is that Greek too? Is that Greek too, eh?

“What have you here, your excellency? A landowner of the secret police? And how zealous he is!” Markelov remarked, a faint smile of pleasure playing about his pale lips.

Kollomietzev stamped and raged, but the governor stopped him.

“It serves you right, Simion Petrovitch. You shouldn’t interfere in what is not your business.”

“Not my business . . . not my business . . . It seems to me that it’s the business of every nobleman–“

Markelov scanned Kollomietzev coldly and slowly, as if for the last time and then turned to Sipiagin.

“If you really want to know my views, my dear brother-in-law, here they are. I admit that the peasants had a right to arrest me and give me up if they disapproved of what I preached to them. They were free to do what they wanted. I came to them, not they to me. As for the government– if it does send me to Siberia, I’ll go without grumbling, although I don’t consider myself guilty. The government does its work, defends itself. Are you satisfied?”

Sipiagin wrung his hands in despair.

“Satisfied!! What a word! That’s not the point, and it is not for us to judge the doings of the government. The question, my dear Sergai, is whether you feel” (Sipiagin had decided to touch the tender strings) “the utter unreasonableness, senselessness, of your undertaking and are prepared to repent; and whether I can answer for you at all, my dear Sergai.”

Markelov frowned.

“I have said all I have to say and don’t want to repeat it.”

“But don’t you repent? Don’t you repent?”

“Oh, leave me alone with your repentence! You want to steal into my very soul? Leave that, at any rate, to me.”

Sipiagin shrugged his shoulders.

“You were always like that; never would listen to common-sense. You have a splendid chance of getting out of this quietly, honourably…

“Quietly, honourably,” Markelov repeated savagely. “We know those words. They are always flung at a man when he’s wanted to do something mean! That is what these fine phrases are for!”

“We sympathise with you,” Sipiagin continued reproachfully, “and you hate us.”

“Fine sympathy! To Siberia and hard labour with us; that is your sympathy. Oh, let me alone! let me alone! for Heaven’s sake!”

Markelov lowered his head.

He was agitated at heart, though externally calm. He was most of all tortured by the fact that he had been betrayed–and by whom? By Eremy of Goloplok! That same Eremy whom he had trusted so much! That Mendely the sulky had not followed him, had really not surprised him. Mendely was drunk and was consequently afraid. But Eremy! For Markelov, Eremy stood in some way as the personification of the whole Russian people, and Eremy had deceived him! Had he been mistaken about the thing he was striving for? Was Kisliakov a liar? And were Vassily Nikolaevitch’s orders all stupid? And all the articles, books, works of socialists and thinkers, every letter of which had seemed to him invincible truth, were they all nonsense too? Was it really so? And the beautiful simile of the abcess awaiting the prick of the lancet–was that, too, nothing more than a phrase? “No! no! ” he whispered to himself, and the colour spread faintly over his bronze-coloured face; “no! All these things are true, true . . . only I am to blame. I did not know how to do things, did not put things in the right way! I ought simply to have given orders, and if anyone had tried to hinder, or object–put a bullet through his head! there is nothing else to be done! He who is against us has no right to live. Don’t they kill spies like dogs, worse than dogs?”

All the details of his capture rose up in Markelov’s mind. First the silence, the leers, then the shrieks from the back of the crowd . . . someone coming up sideways as if bowing to him, then that sudden rush, when he was knocked down. His own cries of “What are you doing, my boys?” and their shouts, “A belt! A belt! tie him up! ” Then the rattling of his bones . . . unspeakable rage . . . filth in his mouth, his nostrils . . . “Shove him in the cart! shove him in the cart!” someone roared with laughter. .

“I didn’t go about it in the right way . . .” That was the thing that most tormented him. That he had fallen under the wheel was his personal misfortune and had nothing to do with the cause–it was possible to bear that . . . but Eremy! Eremy!!

While Markelov was standing with his head sunk on his breast, Sipiagin drew the governor aside and began talking to him in undertones. He flourished two fingers across his forehead, as though he would suggest that the unfortunate man was not quite right in his head, in order to arouse if not sympathy, at any rate indulgence towards the madman. The governor shrugged his shoulders, opened and shut his eyes, regretted his inability to do anything, but made some sort of promise in the end. “Tous les egards . . . certainement, tous les egards,” the soft, pleasant words flowed through his scented moustache. “But you know the law, my boy!”

“Of course I do!” Sipiagin responded with a sort of submissive severity.

While they were talking in the corner, Kollomietzev could scarcely stand still in one spot. He walked up and down, hummed and hawed, showed every sign of impatience. At last he went up to Sipiagin, saying hastily, ” Vous oublier l’autre!”

“Oh, yes!” Sipiagin exclaimed loudly. “Merci de me l’avoir rappele. Your excellency,” he said, turning to the governor (he purposely addressed his friend Voldemar in this formal way, so as not to compromise the prestige of authority in Markelov’s presence), “I must draw your attention to the fact that my brother-in-law’s mad attempt has certain ramifications, and one of these branches, that is to say, one of the suspected persons, is to be found not very far from here, in this town. I’ve brought another with me,” he added in a whisper, “he’s in the drawing- room. Have him brought in here.”

“What a man!” the governor thought with admiration, gazing respectfully at Sipiagin. He gave the order and a minute later Sila Paklin stood before him.

Paklin bowed very low to the governor as he came in, but catching sight of Markelov before he had time to raise himself, remained as he was, half bent down, fidgetting with his cap. Markelov looked at him vacantly, but could hardly have recognised him, as he withdrew into his own thoughts.

“Is this the branch?” the governor asked, pointing to Paklin with a long white finger adorned with a turquoise ring.

“Oh, no!” Sipiagin exclaimed with a slight smile. “However, who knows!” he added after a moment’s thought. “Your excellency,” he said aloud, “the gentleman before you is Mr. Paklin. He comes from St. Petersburg and is a close friend of a certain person who for a time held the position of tutor in my house and who ran away, taking with him a certain young girl who, I blush to say, is my niece.

“Ah! oui, oui,” the governor mumbled, shaking his head, “I heard the story . . . The princess told me–“

Sipiagin raised his voice.

“That person is a certain Mr. Nejdanov, whom I strongly suspect of dangerous ideas and theories–“

“Un rouge a tous crins,” Kollomietzev put in.

“Yes, dangerous ideas and theories,” Sipiagin repeated more emphatically. “He must certainly know something about this propaganda. He is . . . in hiding, as I have been informed by Mr. Paklin, in the merchant Falyaeva’s factory–“

At these words Markelov threw another glance at Paklin and gave a slow, indifferent smile.

“Excuse me, excuse me, your excellency,” Paklin cried, “and you, Mr. Sipiagin, I never . . . never–“

“Did you say the merchant Falyaeva?” the governor asked, turning to Sipiagin and merely shaking his fingers in Paklin’s direction, as much as to say,” Gently, my good man, gently.” “What is coming over our respectable, bearded merchants? Only yesterday one was arrested in connection with this affair. You may have heard of him–Golushkin, a very rich man. But he’s harmless enough. He won’t make revolutions; he’s grovelling on his knees already.”

“The merchant Falyaeva has nothing whatever to do with it,” Sipiagin began; “I know nothing of his ideas; I was only talking of his factory where Mr. Nejdanov is to be found at this very moment, as Mr. Paklin says–“

“I said nothing of the kind!” Paklin cried; “you said it yourself!”

“Excuse me, Mr. Paklin,” Sipiagin pronounced with the same relentless precision, “I admire that feeling of friendship which prompts you to deny it.” (“A regular Guizot, upon my word!” the governor thought to himself.) “But take example by me. Do you suppose that the feeling of kinship is less strong in me than your feeling of friendship? But there is another feeling, my dear sir, yet stronger still, which guides all our deeds and actions, and that is duty!”

“Le sentiment du devoir,” Kollomietzev explained.

Markelov took both the speakers in at a glance.

“Your excellency!” he exclaimed, “I ask you a second time; please have me removed out of sight of these babblers.”

But there the governor lost patience a little.

“Mr. Markelov!” he pronounced severely, “I would advise you, in your present position, to be a little more careful of your tongue, and to show a little more respect to your elders, especially when they give expression to such patriotic sentiments as those you have just heard from the lips of your beau-frere! I shall be delighted, my dear Boris,” he added, turning to Sipiagin, “to tell the minister of your noble action. But with whom is this Nejdanov staying at the factory?”

Sipiagin frowned.

“With a certain Mr. Solomin, the chief engineer there, Mr. Paklin says.”

It seemed to afford Sipiagin some peculiar pleasure in tormenting poor Sila. He made him pay dearly for the cigar he had given him and the playful familiarity of his behaviour.

“This Solomin,” Kollomietzev put in, “is an out-and-out radical and republican. It would be a good thing if your excellency were to turn your attention to him too.”

“Do you know these gentlemen . . . Solomin, and what’s his name . . . Nejdanov?” the governor asked Markelov, somewhat authoritatively.

Markelov distended his nostrils malignantly.

“Do you know Confucius and Titus Livius, your excellency?”

The governor turned away.

“Il n’y a pas moyen de causer avec cette homme,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “Baron, come here, please.”

The adjutant went up to him quickly and Paklin seized the opportunity of limping over to Sipiagin.

“What are you doing?” he asked in a whisper. “Why do you want to ruin your niece? Why, she’s with him, with Nejdanov!”

“I am not ruining any one, my dear sir,” Sipiagin said loudly, “I am only doing what my conscience bids me do, and–“

“And what your wife, my sister, bids you do; you dare not stand up against her!” Markelov exclaimed just as loudly.

Sipiagin took no notice of the remark; it was too much beneath him!

“Listen,” Paklin continued, trembling all over with agitation, or may be from timidity; there was a malignant light in his eyes and the tears were nearly choking him–tears of pity for them and rage at himself; “listen, I told you she was married–it wasn’t true, I lied! but they must get married–and if you prevent it, if the police get there–there will be a stain on your conscience which you’ll never be able to wipe out–and you–“

“If what you have just told me be true,” Sipiagin interrupted him still more loudly, “then it can only hasten the measures which I think necessary to take in this matter; and as for the purity of my conscience, I beg you not to trouble about that, my dear sir.

“It’s been polished,” Markelov put in again; “there is a coat of St. Petersburg varnish upon it; no amount of washing will make it come clean. You may whisper as much as you like, Mr. Paklin, but you won’t get anything out of it!

At this point the governor considered it necessary to interfere.

“I think that you have said enough, gentlemen,” he began, “and I’ll ask you, my dear baron, to take Mr. Markelov away. N’est ce pas, Boris, you don’t want him any further–“

Sipiagin made a gesture with his hands.

“I said everything I could think of!”

“Very well, baron!”

The adjutant came up to Markelov, clinked his spurs, made a horizontal movement of the hand, as if to request Markelov to make a move; the latter turned and walked out. Paklin, only in imagination it is true, but with bitter sympathy and pity, shook him by the hand.

“We’ll send some of our men to the factory,” the governor continued; “but you know, Boris, I thought this gentleman” (he moved his chin in Paklin’s direction)” told you something about your niece . . . I understood that she was there at the factory. Then how…

“It’s impossible to arrest her in any case,” Sipiagin remarked thoughtfully; “perhaps she will think better of it and return. I’ll write her a note, if I may.”

“Do please. You may be quite sure . . . nous offrerons le quidam . . . mais nous sommes galants avec les dames et avec celle-la donc!”

“But you’ve made no arrangements about this Solomin,” Kollomietzev exclaimed plaintively. He had been on the alert all the while, trying to catch what the governor and Sipiagin were saying. “I assure you he’s the principal ringleader! I have a wonderful instinct about these things!”

“Pas trop de zele, my dear Simion Petrovitch,” the governor remarked with a smile. “You remember Talleyrand! If it is really as you say the fellow won’t escape us. You had better think of your–” the governor put his hand to his throat significantly. “By the way,” he said, turning to Sipiagin, “et ce gaillard-la” (he moved his chin in Paklin’s direction). “Qu’enferons nous? He does not appear very dangerous.”

“Let him go,” Sipiagin said in an undertone, and added in German, “Lass’ den Lumpen laufen!”

He imagined for some reason that he was quoting from Goethe’s Gotz von Berlichingen.

“You can go, sir!” the governor said aloud. “We do not require you any longer. Good day.”

Paklin bowed to the company in general and went out into the street completely crushed and humiliated. Heavens! this contempt had utterly broken him.

“Good God! What am I? A coward, a traitor?” he thought, in unutterable despair. “Oh, no, no! I am an honest man, gentlemen! I have still some manhood left!”

But who was this familiar figure sitting on the governor’s step and looking at him with a dejected, reproachful glance? It was Markelov’s old servant. He had evidently come to town for his master, and would not for a moment leave the door of his prison. But why did he look so reproachfully at Paklin? He had not betrayed Markelov!

“And why did I go poking my nose into things that did not concern me? Why could I not sit quietly at home? And now it will be said and written that Paklin betrayed them– betrayed his friends to the enemy!” He recalled the look Markelov had given him and his last words, “Whisper as much as you like, Mr. Paklin, but you won’t get anything out of it!” and then these sad, aged, dejected eyes! he thought in desperation. And as it says in the scriptures, he “wept bitterly” as he turned his steps towards the oasis, to Fomishka and Fimishka and Snandulia.

XXXVI

WHEN Mariana came out of her room that morning she noticed Nejdanov sitting on the couch fully dressed. His head was resting against one arm, while the other lay weak and helpless on his knee. She went up to him.

“Goodmorning, Alexai. Why, you haven’t undressed? Haven’t you slept? How pale you are!”

His heavy eyelids rose slowly.

“No, I haven’t.”

“Aren’t you well, or is it the after-effects of yesterday?

Nejdanov shook his head.

“I couldn’t sleep after Solomin went into your room.”

“When?”

Last night.”

“Alexai! are you jealous? A new idea! What a time to be jealous in! Why, he was only with me a quarter of an hour. We talked about his cousin, the priest, and discussed arrangements for our marriage.”

“I know that he was only with you a short time. I saw him come out. And I’m not jealous, oh no! But still I couldn’t fall asleep after that.”

“But why?”

Nejdanov was silent.

“I kept thinking . . . thinking. . . thinking!”

“Of what?

“Oh, of you . . . of him . . . and of myself.”

“And what came of all your thinking?”

“Shall I tell you?”

Yes, tell me.”

“It seemed to me that I stood in your way–in his . . . and in my own.”

“Mine? His? It’s easy to see what you mean by that, though you declare you’re not jealous, but your own?”

“Mariana, there are two men in me and one doesn’t let the other live. So I thought it might be better if both ceased to live.”

“Please don’t, Alexai. Why do you want to torment yourself and me? We ought to be considering ways and means of getting away. They won’t leave us in peace you know.”

Nejdanov took her hand caressingly.

“Sit down beside me, Mariana, and let us talk things over like comrades while there is still time. Give me your hand. It would be a good thing for us to have an explanation, though they say that all explanations only lead to further muddle. But you are kind and intelligent and are sure to understand, even the things that I am unable to express. Come, sit down.”

Nejdanov’s voice was soft, and a peculiarly affectionate tenderness shone in his eyes as he looked entreatingly at Mariana.

She sat down beside him readily and took his hand.

“Thanks, dearest. I won’t keep you long. I thought out all the things I wanted to say to you last night. Don’t think I was too much upset by yesterday’s occurrence. I was no doubt extremely ridiculous and rather disgusting, but I know you didn’t think anything bad of me–you know me. I am not telling the truth exactly when I say that I wasn’t upset–I was horribly upset, not because I was brought home drunk, but because I was convinced of my utter inefficiency. Not because I could not drink like a real Russian– but in everything! everything! Mariana, I must tell you that I no longer believe in the cause that united us and on the strength of which we ran away together. To tell the truth, I had already lost faith when your enthusiasm set me on fire again. I don’t believe in it! I can’t believe in it!”

He put his disengaged hand over his eyes and ceased for awhile. Mariana did not utter a single word and sat looking downwards. She felt that he had told her nothing new.

“I always thought,” Nejdanov continued, taking his hand away from his eyes, but not looking at Mariana again, “that I believed in the cause itself, but had no faith in myself, in my own strength, my own capacities. I used to think that my abilities did not come up to my convictions . . . But you can’t separate these things. And what’s the use of deceiving oneself? No– I don’t believe in the cause itself. And you, Mariana, do you believe in it?”

Mariana sat up straight and raised her head.

“Yes, I do, Alexai. I believe in it with all the strength of my soul, and will devote my whole life to it, to the last breath!”

Nejdanov turned towards her and looked at her enviously, with a tender light in his eyes.

“I knew you would answer like that. So you see there is nothing for us to do together; you have severed our tie with one blow.”

Mariana was silent.

“Take Solomin, for instance,” Nejdanov began again, “though he does not believe–“

“What do you mean?”

“It’s quite true. He does not believe . . . but that is not necessary for him; he is moving steadily onwards. A man walking along a road in a town does not question the existence of the town– he just goes his way. That is Solomin. That is all that’s needed. But I . . . I can’t go ahead, don’t want to turn back, and am sick of staying where I am. How dare I ask anyone to be my companion? You know the old proverb, ‘With two people to carry the pole, the burden will be easier.’ But if you let go your end- – what becomes of the other?”

“Alexai,” Mariana began irresolutely, “I think you exaggerate. Do we not love each other?”

Nejdanov gave a deep sigh.

“Mariana . . . I bow down before you. . . you pity me, and each of us has implicit faith in the other’s honesty– that is our position. But there is no love between us.”

“Stop, Alexai! what are you saying? The police may come for us today… we must go away together and not part–“

“And get Father Zosim to marry us at Solomin’s suggestion. I know that you merely look upon our marriage as a kind of passport– a means of avoiding any difficulties with the police . . . but still it will bind us to some extent; necessitate our living together and all that. Besides it always presupposes a desire to live together.”

“What do you mean, Alexai? You don’t intend staying here?”

Nejdanov said hesitatingly. The word “yes” nearly escaped his lips, but he recollected himself in time.

“Then you are going to a different place– not where I am going?”

Nejdanov pressed her hand which still lay in his own.

“It would indeed be vile to leave you without a supporter, without a protector, but I won’t do that, as bad as I may be. You shall have a protector– rest assured.”

Mariana bent down towards him and, putting her face close against his, looked anxiously into his eyes, as though trying to penetrate to his very soul.

“What is the matter, Alexai? What have you on your mind? Tell me . . . you frighten me. Your words are so strange and enigmatical . . . And your face! I have never seen your face like that!”

Nejdanov put her from him gently and kissed her hand tenderly. This time she made no resistance and did not laugh, but sat still looking at him anxiously.

“Don’t be alarmed, dear. There is nothing strange in it. They say Markelov was beaten by the peasants; he felt their blows– they crushed his ribs. They did not beat me, they even drank with me– drank my health– but they crushed my soul more completely than they did Markelov’s ribs. I was born out of joint, wanted to set myself right, and have made matters worse. That is what you notice in my face.”

“Alexai,” Mariana said slowly, “it would be very wrong of you not to be frank with me.”

He clenched his hands.

“Mariana, my whole being is laid bare before you, and whatever I might do, I tell you beforehand, nothing will really surprise you; nothing whatever!”

Mariana wanted to ask him what he meant, but at that moment Solomin entered the room.

His movements were sharper and more rapid than usual. His eyes were half closed, his lips compressed, the whole of his face wore a drier, harder, somewhat rougher expression.

“My dear friends,” he began, “I must ask you not to waste time, but prepare yourselves as soon as possible. You must be ready in an hour. You have to go through the marriage ceremony. There is no news of Paklin. His horses were detained for a time at Arjanov and then sent back. He has been kept there. They’ve no doubt brought him to town by this time. I don’t think he would betray us, but he might let things out unwittingly. Besides, they might have guessed from the horses. My cousin has been informed of your coming. Pavel will go with you. He will be a witness.”

“And you . . . and you?” Nejdanov asked. “Aren’t you going? I see you’re dressed for the road,” he added, indicating Solomin’s high boots with his eyes.

“Oh, I only put them on . . . because it’s rather muddy outside.”

“But you won’t be held responsible for us, will you?”

“I hardly think so . . . in any case . . . that’s my affair. So you’ll be ready in an hour. Mariana, I believe Tatiana wants to see you. She has something prepared for you.”

“Oh, yes! I wanted to see her too . . .” Mariana turned to the door.

A peculiar expression of fear, despair, spread itself over Nejdanov’s face.

“Mariana, you’re not going?” he asked in a frightened tone of voice.

She stood still.

“I’ll be back in half an hour. It won’t take me long to pack.”

“Come here, close to me, Mariana.”

“Certainly, but what for? “

“I wanted to have one more look at you.” He looked at her intently. Goodbye, goodbye, Mariana!”

She seemed bewildered.

“Why . . . what nonsense I’m talking! You’ll be back in half an hour, won’t you, eh?”

Of course–“

“Never mind; forgive me, dear. My brain is in a whirl from lack of sleep. I must begin . . . packing, too.”

Mariana went out of the room and Solomin was about to follow her when Nejdanov stopped him.

“Solomin!”

“What is it? “

“Give me your hand. I must thank you for your kindness and hospitality.”

Solomin smiled.

“What an idea!” He extended his hand.

“There’s another thing I wished to say,” Nejdanov continued. “Supposing anything were to happen to me, may I hope that you won’t abandon Mariana?”

“Your future wife?

“Yes . . . Mariana!”

“I don’t think anything is likely to happen to you, but you may set your mind at rest. Mariana is just as dear to me as she is to you.”

“Oh, I knew it . . . knew it, knew it! I’m so glad! thanks. So in an hour?”

“In an hour.”

“I shall be ready. Goodbye, my friend!”

Solomin went out and caught Mariana up on the staircase. He had intended saying something to her about Nejdanov, but refrained from doing so. And Mariana guessed that he wished to say something about him and that he could not. She, too, was silent.

XXXVII

DIRECTLY Solomin had gone, Nejdanov jumped up from the couch, walked up and down the room several times, then stood still in the middle in a sort of stony indecision. Suddenly he threw off his “masquerade” costume, kicked it into a corner of the room, and put on his own clothes. He then went up to the little three- legged table, pulled out of a drawer two sealed letters and some other object which he thrust into his pocket; the letters he left on the table. Then he crouched down before the stove and opened the little door. A whole heap of ashes lay inside. This was all that remained of Nejdanov’s papers, of his sacred book of verses . . . He had burned them all in the night. Leaning against one side of the stove was Mariana’s portrait that Markelov had given him. He had evidently not had the heart to burn that too! He took it out carefully and put in on the table beside the two letters.

Then, with a quick resolute movement, he put on his cap and walked towards the door. But suddenly he stopped, turned back, and went into Mariana’s room. There, he stood still for a moment, gazed round, then approaching her narrow little bed, bent down and with one stifled sob pressed his lips to the foot of the bed. He then jumped up, thrust his cap over his forehead, and rushed out. Without meeting anyone in the corridor, on the stairs, or down below, he darted out into the garden. It was a grey day, with a low-hanging sky and a damp breeze that blew in waves over the tops of the grass and made the trees rustle. A whiff of coal, tar, and tallow was borne along from the yard, but the noise and rattling in the factory was fainter than usual at that time of day. Nejdanov looked round sharply to see if anyone was about and made straight for the old apple tree that had first attracted his attention when he had looked out of the little window of his room on the day of his arrival. The whole of its trunk was evergrown with dry moss, its bare, rugged branches, sparsely covered with reddish leaves, rose crookedly, like some old arms held up in supplication. Nejdanov stepped firmly on to the dark soil beneath the tree and pulled out the object he had taken from the table drawer. He looked up intently at the windows of the little house. “If somebody were to see me now, perhaps I wouldn’t do it,” he thought. But no human being was to be seen anywhere– everyone seemed dead or turned away from him, leaving him to the mercy of fate. Only the muffled hum and roar of the factory betrayed any signs of life; and overhead a fine, keen, chilly rain began falling.

Nejdanov gazed up through the crooked branches of the tree under which he was standing at the grey, cloudy sky looking down upon him so unfeelingly. He yawned and lay down. “There’s nothing else to be done. I can’t go back to St. Petersburg, to prison,” he thought. A kind of pleasant heaviness spread all over his body . . . He threw away his cap, took up the revolver, and pulled the trigger.

Something struck him instantly, but with no very great violence . . . He was lying on his back trying to make out what had happened to him and how it was that he had just seen Tatiana. He tried to call her. . . but a peculiar numbness had taken possession of him and curious dark green spots were whirling about all over him– in his eyes, over his head, in his brain– and some frightfully heavy, dull weight seemed to press him to the earth forever.

Nejdanov did really get a glimpse of Tatiana. At the moment when he pulled the trigger she had looked out of a window and caught sight of him standing under the tree. She had hardly time to ask herself what he was doing there in the rain without a hat, when he rolled to the ground like a sheaf of corn. She did not hear the shot–it was very faint–but instantly felt that something was amiss and rushed out into the garden. She came up to Nejdanov, breathless.

“Alexai Dmitritch! What is the matter with you?”

But a darkness had already descended upon him. Tatiana bent over and noticed blood…

“Pavel!” she shouted at the top of her voice, “Pavel!”

A minute or two later, Mariana, Solomin, Pavel, and two workmen were in the garden. They lifted him instantly, carried him into the house, and laid him on the same couch on which he had passed his last night.

He lay on his back with half-closed eyes, his face blue all over. There was a rattling in his throat, and every now and again he gave a choking sob. Life had not yet left him. Mariana and Solomin were standing on either side of him, almost as pale as he was himself. They both felt crushed, stunned, especially Mariana- – but they were not surprised. “How did we not foresee this? ” they asked themselves, but it seemed to them that they had foreseen it all along. When he said to Mariana, “Whatever I do, I tell you beforehand, nothing will really surprise you,” and when he had spoken of the two men in him that would not let each other live, had she not felt a kind of vague presentiment? Then why had she ignored it? Why was it she did not now dare to look at Solomin, as though he were her accomplice. . .as though he, too, were conscience-stricken? Why was it that her unutterable, despairing pity for Nejdanov was mixed with a feeling of horror, dread, and shame? Perhaps she could have saved him? Why are they both standing there, not daring to pronounce a word, hardly daring to breathe-waiting . . . for what? Oh, God!”

Solomin sent for a doctor, though there was no hope. Tatiana bathed Nejdanov’s head with cold water and vinegar and laid a cold sponge on the small, dark wound, now free from blood. Suddenly the rattling in Nejdanov’s throat ceased and he stirred a little.

“He is coming to himself,” Solomin whispered. Mariana dropped down on her knees before him. Nejdanov glanced at her . . up until then his eyes had borne that fixed, far-away look of the dying.

“I am . . . still alive,” he pronounced scarcely audible. “I couldn’t even do this properly . . . I am detaining you.”

“Aliosha! ” Mariana sobbed out.

“It won’t . . . be long. . . . Do you . . . remember … Mariana . . . my poem? . . . Surround me with flowers . . . But where . . . are the . . . flowers? Never mind . . . so long as you . . . are here. . .There in . . . my letter. . .

He suddenly shuddered.

“Ah! here it comes . . . Take . . . each other’s hands . . . before me . . . quickly . . . take. . .”

Solomin seized Mariana’s hand. Her head lay on the couch, face downwards, close to the wound. Solomin, dark as night, held himself severely erect.

“That’s right . . . that’s…”

Nejdanov broke out into sobs again–strange unusual sobs . . . His breast rose, his sides heaved.

He tried to lay his hand on their united ones, but it fell back dead.

“He is passing away,” Tatiana whispered as she stood at the door, and began crossing herself.

His sobs grew briefer, fewer . . . He still searched around for Mariana with his eyes, but a menacing white film was spreading over them.

“That’s right,” were his last words.

He had breathed his last . . . and the clasped hands of Mariana and Solomin still lay upon his breast.

The following are the contents of the two letters he had left. One consisting only of a few lines, was addressed to Silin:

“Goodbye, my dear friend, goodbye! When this reaches you, I shall be no more. Don’t ask why or wherefore, and don’t grieve; be sure that I am better off now. Take up our immortal Pushkin and read over the description of the death of Lensky in ‘Yevgenia Onegin.’ Do you remember? The windows are white-washed. The mistress has gone–that’s all. There is nothing more for me to say. Were I to say all I wanted to, it would take up too much time. But I could not leave this world without telling you, or you might have gone on thinking of me as living and I should have put a stain upon our friendship. Goodbye; live well.–Your friend, A. N.”

The other letter, somewhat longer, was addressed to Solomin and Mariana. It began thus:

“MY DEAR CHILDREN” (immediately after these words there was a break, as if something had been scratched or smeared out, as if tears had fallen upon it),– “It may seem strange to you that I should address you in this way–I am almost a child myself and you, Solomin, are older than I am. But I am about to die–and standing as I do at the end of my life, I look upon myself as an old man. I have wronged you both, especially you, Mariana, by causing you so much grief and pain (I know you will grieve, Mariana) and giving you so much anxiety. But what could I do? I could think of no other way out. I could not simplify myself, so the only thing left for me to do was to blot myself out altogether.

Mariana, I would have been a burden to you and to myself. You are generous, you would have borne the burden gladly, as a new sacrifice, but I have no right to demand such a sacrifice of you- – you have a higher and better work before you. My children, let me unite you as it were from the grave. You will live happily together. Mariana, I know you will come to love Solomin–and he . . . he loved you from the moment he first saw you at the Sipiagins. It was no secret to me, although we ran away a few days later. Ah! that glorious morning! how exquisite and fresh and young it was! It comes back to me now as a token, a symbol of your life together–your life and his–and I by the merest chance happened to be in his place. But enough! I don’t want to