'And who is this Kislyakov?' cried Nezhdanov impatiently.
Markelov smiled significantly, and said that he was a man . . . such a man.. . .
'I know him very little, though,' he added; 'I have only seen him twice altogether. But the letters that man writes! such letters!! I will show you them.. . . You will be astonished. Such fire! And his activity! Five or six times he has raced right across Russia and back . . . and from every station a letter of ten-twelve pages!'
Nezhdanov looked inquiringly at Ostrodumov, but he sat like a statue, not an eyebrow twitching, while Mashurina's lips were compressed in a bitter smile, but she, too, was dumb as a fish. Nezhdanov tried to question Markelov about his reforms in a socialistic direction on his estate . . . but at this Ostrodumov interposed.
'What's the good of discussing that now?' he observed. 'It makes no difference; everything must be transformed afterwards.'
The conversation turned again into a political channel. Nezhdanov was still devoured by a secret worm gnawing within; but the keener the inward torture, the more loudly and positively he spoke. He had drunk only one glass of beer, but from time to time it struck
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