XVII
Markelov's guests were still asleep when a messenger came to him with a letter from his sister, Madame Sipyagin. In the letter Valentina Mihalovna wrote to him of various trifling domestic details, asked him to send her back a book he had borrowed─and incidentally, in the postscript, told him of an 'amusing' piece of news: that his former flame, Marianna, was in love with the tutor, Nezhdanov and the tutor with her; that she, Valentina Mihalovna, was not repeating gossip─she had seen it all with her own eyes,and heard it with her own ears. Markelov's face grew dark as night . . . but he did not utter one word; he gave orders to give the book to the messenger, and when he saw Nezhdanov coming downstairs he said, 'Good morning' to him, just as usual─even gave him the promised packet of Kislyakov's epistles; he did not stop with him, though, but went out 'to see after things.' Nezhdanov went back to his room, and looked through the letters. The young propagandist talked incessantly of himself, of his feverish activity; according to his own statement, he had during the last month journeyed through eleven districts, been in nine towns, twenty-nine villages, fifty-three hamlets, one farm, and eight factories; sixteen nights he had passed in hay-lofts, one in a stable, one even in a cow-shed (he mentioned, in a parenthetical note, that fleas did not affect him); he had got into mud-huts, into workmen's barracks; everywhere he had taught, preached, distributed pamphlets, and collected information by the way; some facts he had noted on the spot, others he carried in his memory on the latest system of mnemonics; he had written fourteen long letters, twenty-seven short ones, and eighteen notes, four of which were written in pencil, one in blood, one in soot and water; and all this he had managed to do because he had mastered the systematic disposition of his time, taking as his models Quintin Johnson, Karrelius, Sverlitsky, and other writers and statisticians. Then he talked again of himself, his lucky star; and how and with what additions he had completed Fourier's theory of the passions; declared that he was the first to reach the 'bed-rock,' that he should 'not pass from the world without leaving a trace behind,' that he himself wondered that he, a boy of two-andtwenty, should already have solved all the problems of life and of science, and that he should turn Russia upside down, that he would 'give her a shaking!' Dixi!! he added at the end of the line. This word, Dixi, occurred frequently in Kislyakov's effusions, and always with two exclamation marks. In one of the letters there was a socialistic poem, addressed to a girl, and beginning with the words:
'Love not me, but the idea!'
Nezhdanov marvelled inwardly, not so much at Mr. Kislyakov's self-conceit as at Markelov's honest simplicity . . . but then came the thought, 'Good taste be hanged! Mr. Kislyakov even may be of use.'
The three friends all met in the dining-room for morning tea, but the previous night's discussion was not renewed between them. Not one of them was disposed to talk, but only Solomin was placidly silent; both Nezhdanov and Markelov were inwardly perturbed.
After tea they set off to the town; Markelov's old servant, sitting on his locker, followed his former owner with his habitual dejected glance.
The merchant, Golushkin, with whom Nezhdanov was to make acquaintance, was the son of a wealthy merchant in the wholesale drug business─an Old Believer of the Fedosian sect. He had not increased his father's fortune by his own efforts, as he was, as it is called by the Russians, a joueur, an Epicurean of the Russian stamp, and had no sort of aptitude for business. He was a man of forty, rather stout, and ugly, pockmarked, with small pig's eyes; he talked in a great hurry, stumbling, as it were, over his words, gesticulating with his hands, swinging his legs, and going off into giggles . . . and in general making the impression of a blockhead and a coxcomb of extraordinary vanity. He considered himself a man of culture, because he wore German clothes, and was hospitable, though he lived in filth and disorder, had rich acquaintances, and used to go to the theatre and 'protect' low music-hall actresses, with whom he communicated in an extraordinary would-be French jargon. The thirst for popularity was his ruling passion; for the name of Golushkin to be thundering through the world! As once Suvarov or Potemkin, why not now Kapiton Golushkin? It was just this passion, overcoming even his innate meanness, which had flung him, as he with some self-complacency expressed it, into the opposition (he had at first pronounced this foreign word simply position, but afterwards he had learned better), and brought him into connection with the nihilists; he uttered freely the most extreme views, laughed at his own Old Believers' faith, ate meat in Lent, played cards, and drank champagne like water. And he never got into trouble, because, he used to say, 'I have every authority bribed just where it's needed, every hole is sewn up, all mouths are shut, all ears are deaf.' He was a widower and childless; his sister's sons hung about him with timorous servility . . . but he used to call them unenlightened clowns and barbarians, and would hardly look at them. He lived in a large stone house, rather sluttishly kept; in some rooms the furniture was all of foreign make─in others there was nothing but painted chairs and an American-leather sofa. Pictures were hung everywhere, and all of them were wretched daubs─red landscapes, pink marine views, Moller's 'Kiss,' and fat, naked women, with red knees and elbows. Though Golushkin had no family, there were a great many servants and dependents of different kinds under his roof; it was not from generosity that he kept them, but, again, from a desire for power, so as to have a public of some sort at his command to show off before. 'My clients', he used to call them when he was in a bragging mood; he never read a book, but he had a capital memory for learned expressions.
The young men found Golushkin in his study. Dressed in a long coat, with a cigar in his mouth, he was pretending to read the newspaper. On seeing them, he at once jumped up, and fussed about, turning red, shouting for some refreshment to be brought immediately, asking questions, laughing─all at the same time. Markelov and Solomin he knew; Nezhdanov was a stranger to him. Hearing that he was a student, Golushkin laughed again, shook his hand a second time, and said: 'Capital! capital! our forces are growing. . . . Learning is light, ignorance is darkness. I've not a ha'porth of learning myself, but I've insight—that's how I've got on!'
It struck Nezhdanov that Mr. Golushkin was nervous and ill at ease . . . and that was actually the fact. 'Look out, brother Kapiton! mind you don't come a cropper in the mud!' was his first thought at the sight of any new person. Soon, however, he recovered himself, and in the same hurried, lisping, muddled language began talking of Vassily Nikolaevitch, of his character, of the necessity of pro-pa-gan-da (he had that word very pat, but he articulated it slowly); of how he, Golushkin, had discovered a capital new recruit, most trustworthy; of how it seemed now that the time was at hand, was ready for . . . for the lancet (at this he glanced at Markelov, who did not, however, stir a muscle); then, turning to Nezhdanov, he started singing his own praises, with as much zest as the great correspondent, Kislyakov, himself. He said that he had long left the ranks of the benighted, that he knew well the rights of the proletariat (that word, too, he had a firm hold of), that though he had actually given up commerce and taken to banking operations─to increase his capital─that was only that the aforesaid capital might be ready at any moment to serve . . . the good of the common movement, the good, so to speak, of the people; and that he, Golushkin, had in reality the greatest contempt for money! At this point a servant came in with refreshments, and Golushkin cleared his throat expressively, and asked wouldn't he begin with a little glass of something? and set the example by gulping down a wineglass of pepper-brandy.
The visitors partook of the refreshments. Golushkin thrust some huge morsels of caviar in his mouth, and drank with unflagging punctuality, saying, 'Come, gentlemen, a glass of good Macon now.'
Addressing himself again to Nezhdanov, he asked where he had come from, and how long and where he was staying; and learning that he was living at Sipyagin's, he cried: 'I know that gentleman. No good!' and then proceeded to abuse all the landowners of the province of S———, on the grounds, not only of their having no public spirit, but of their not even understanding their own interests. . . . Only, strange to say, though his language was strong, his eyes strayed restlessly about, and a look of uneasiness could be detected in them. Nezhdanov could not quite make out what sort of a person he was, and in what way he was of use to them. Solomin was silent, as usual; and Markelov had such a gloomy face, that Nezhdanov asked him at last, what was wrong with him? To which Markelov replied that there was nothing wrong with him, in the tone in which people commonly answer when they mean to give you to understand that there is something, but not for you to know. Golushkin again started abusing some one or other, then he passed to praise of the younger generation: 'such talented fellows', he declared, 'are appearing among us nowadays! such talent! Ah! . . .'
Solomin cut him short with the question, who was the trustworthy young man he had spoken of, and where had he picked him up? Golushkin giggled, repeated twice, 'Ah, you shall see, you shall see,' and began cross-questioning him about his factory, and its 'shark' of an owner, to which Solomin replied in monosyllables. Then Golushkin poured out champagne for all; and, bending down to Nezhdanov's ear, he whispered, 'To the republic!' and drank off his glass at a gulp. Nezhdanov sipped his; Solomin remarked that he didn't drink wine in the morning; Markelov angrily and resolutely drained his glass to the last drop. He seemed devoured by impatience; 'here we are wasting our time,' he seemed to say, 'and not coming to the real matter to be discussed.' . . . He struck a blow on the table, exclaimed sternly, 'Gentlemen!' and was about to speak . . .
But at that instant there came into the room a sleek man with a foxy face and a consumptive appearance, in a merchant's dress of nankeen, with both hands outstretched like wings. Bowing to the party collectively, the man communicated something to Golushkin in a whisper: 'I'll come directly,' the latter replied hurriedly. 'Gentlemen,' he added, 'I must beg you to excuse me . . . Vasya here, my clerk, has told me of a leetle affair' (Golushkin pronounced it thus purposely, by way of being jocose) 'which absolutely necessitates my absenting myself for a while; but I hope, gentlemen, that you will consent to take a meal with me to-day at three o'clock; and then we shall be much more at liberty!'
Neither Solomin nor Nezhdanov knew what answer to make; but Markelov answered at once with the same sternness in his face and voice: 'Of course we will; it would be rather too much of a farce if we didn't.'
'I am greatly obliged,' said Golushkin hastily, and bending to Markelov, he added: 'A thousand roubles I devote to the cause in any case . . . have no doubt about that!'
And so saying he waved his right hand three times, with the thumb and little finger sticking out, as a sign of his good faith.
He escorted his guests to the door, and standing in the doorway, shouted, 'I shall expect you at three!'
'You may expect us!' Markelov alone responded.
'Well, my friends,' observed Solomin, when they were all three in the street, 'I'm going to take a cab and go back to the factory. What are we to do till dinner-time? Waste our time idling about? And, indeed, our worthy merchant . . . it strikes me . . . is like the goat in the fable, neither good for wool nor for milk.'
'Oh, there shall be some wool,' observed Markelov grimly. 'He was just promising some money. Or isn't he nice enough for you? We can't be particular. We're not so much courted that we can afford to be squeamish.''I'm not squeamish!' said Solomin calmly; 'I'm only asking myself what good my presence can do. However,' he added with a glance at Nezhdanov, and a smile, I will stay, by all means. Even death, as they say, is sweet in good company.'
Markelov raised his head.
'Let's go, meanwhile, to the public gardens; it's a lovely day. We can look at the people.'
'Very well.'
They went, Markelov and Solomin in front, Nezhdanov behind them.