XXII
He hurriedly changed his clothes and went to give Kolya his lesson. Sipyagin, whom he met in the dining-room, bowed to him with chilly politeness, and muttering through his teeth, 'Had a pleasant visit?' went on to his study. The statesman had already decided in his diplomatic mind that directly the vacation was over he would promptly pack this tutor off to Petersburg, as he was 'positively too red,' and meanwhile he would keep an eye on him . . . 'Je n'ai pas eu la main heureuse cette fois-ci,' he thought to himself; however, 'j'aurais pu tomber pire.' Valentina Mihalovna's sentiments towards Nezhdanov were far more energetic and defined. She could not endure him now. . . . He—this little scrub of a boy!—had affronted her. Marianna had not been mistaken; it was she, Valentina Mihalovna, who had been spying on her and Nezhdanov in the corridor.. . . The distinguished lady was not above such a proceeding. In the course of the two days his absence had lasted, though she had said nothing to her 'thoughtless' niece, she had repeatedly given her to understand that she was aware of everything; that she would have been indignant, had she not been half-contemptuous, half-compassionate.. . . Her face was filled with restrained, inward contempt, her eyebrows were raised with something of irony and, at the same time, of pity whenever she looked at or spoke to Marianna; her superb eyes rested with tender perplexity, with mournful disgust, on the self-willed girl who, after all her 'fancies and eccentricities,' had come to . . . to . . . to kissing . . . in dark rooms . . . with a paltry little undergraduate!
Poor Marianna! Her stern, proud lips knew nothing as yet of any man's kisses.
Valentina Mihalovna had, however, given her husband no hint of the discovery she had made; she contented herself by accompanying a few words addressed to Marianna in his presence by a significant smile, in no way relevant to their apparent meaning. Valentina Mihalovna felt positively rather remorseful for having written the letter to her brother . . . but, all things considered, she preferred to repent and have done it, than be spared her penitence at the price of the letter not having been written.
Of Marianna, Nezhdanov had a glimpse in the dining-room at lunch. He thought her looking thin and yellow; she was not at all pretty that day; but the rapid glance she flung at him the instant he came into the room went straight to his heart. On the other hand, Valentina Mihalovna looked at him as though she were continually repeating inwardly, 'I congratulate you! Well done! Very smart!' and at the same time she wanted to discover from his face whether Markelov had shown him the letter or not. She decided at last that he had shown it.
Sipyagin, hearing that Nezhdanov had been to the factory of which Solomin was the manager, began cross-questioning him about 'that manufacturing enterprise which presents so many striking points of interest'; but being shortly convinced from the young man's answers that he had really seen nothing there, he relapsed into majestic silence, with the air of reproaching himself for having expected any valuable information from such an undeveloped person! As they left the dining-room, Marianna managed to whisper to Nezhdanov, 'Wait for me in the old birch copse, Alexey; I will come directly I can get away.' Nezhdanov thought, 'She, too, calls me Alexey, just as he did.' And how sweet that familiarity was to him, though rather terrible too! and how strange, and how incredible, if she had suddenly begun addressing him as Mr. Nezhdanov again, if she had been more distant to him! He felt that that would be misery to him. Whether he was in love with her he could not be sure yet; but that she was precious to him, and near, and necessary—yes, above all, necessary,—that he felt to the very depths of his being.
The copse to which Marianna had sent him consisted of some hundreds of old birch-trees, mostly of the weeping variety. The wind had not dropped; the long bundles of twigs nodded and tossed like loosened tresses in the breeze; the clouds, as before, flew fast and high up in the sky, and when one of them floated across the sun, everything grew—not dark—but of one uniform tint. Then it floated past, and suddenly glaring patches of light were waving everywhere again, in tangled, medley riot, mingled with patches of shade . . . the rustle and movement were the same; but a kind of festive delight was added. With just such joyous violence, passion makes its way into a heart distraught and darkened by trouble.. . . And just such was the heart Nezhdanov carried within his breast.
He leaned against the trunk of a birch-tree, and began waiting. He did not really know what he was feeling, and indeed he did not want to know; he felt at once more disturbed and more light of heart than at Markelov's. He longed before all things to see her, to speak to her; the chain which so suddenly binds two living creatures together had him fast just then. Nezhdanov bethought himself of the rope flung to the quay when the ship is ready to be made fast.. . . Now it is twisted tight about a post, and the ship is at rest.
In harbour! God be thanked!
Suddenly he trembled. There was a glimpse of a woman's dress on the path in the distance. It was she. But whether she was coming towards him, or going away from him, he could not be sure, until he saw that the patches of light and shadow glided from below upwards over her figure . . . so she was approaching. They would have mowed from above downwards if she had been walking away. A few instants more and she was standing near him, before him, with a bright face of greeting, a tender light in her eyes, a faint but gay smile on her lips. He snatched her outstretched hands, but at first could not utter a word; she, too, said nothing. She had walked very quickly and was a little out of breath; but it could be seen she was immensely overjoyed that he was overjoyed to see her.
She was the first to speak.
'Well,' she began,' tell me quickly what you've decided on!'
Nezhdanov was surprised.
'Decided! . . . why, were we to have decided on anything just now?'
'Oh, you know what I mean! Tell me what you talked about. Whom did you see? Have you made friends with Solomin? Tell me everything, everything! Stay a minute—let's go over there, further. I know a place . . . that 's not so visible.'
She drew him after her. He followed her obediently right through the tall, scanty, dry grass.
She led him to the place she meant. There lay a great birch-tree that had fallen in a storm. They sat down on the trunk.
'Come, tell me!' she repeated, but she went on herself at once: 'Ah, how glad I am to see you, dear! I thought these two days would never pass. You know, Alexey, I'm certain now that Valentina Mihalovna overheard us.'
'She wrote to Markelov about it,' said Nezhdanov.
'To Markelov!'
Marianna did not speak for a minute, and gradually crimsoned all over, not from shame, but from another stronger passion.
'Wicked, malicious woman!' she murmured slowly; 'she had no right to do that.. . . Well, never mind! Tell me, tell me everything.'
Nezhdanov began talking.. . . Marianna listened to him with a sort of stony attention, and only interrupted him when she noticed that he was hurrying things over, slurring over incidents. All the details of his visits were not however of equal interest to her; she laughed over Fomushka and Fimushka, but they did not interest her. Their life was too remote from her.
'It 's just as if you were telling me about Nebuchadnezzar,' was her comment.
But what Markelov said, what Golushkin even thought (though she soon realised what sort of a creature he was), and, above all, what were Solomin's ideas, and what he was like—these were the points she wanted to hear about, and took to heart. 'When? when?'—that was the question that was continually in her head and on her lips when Nezhdanov was talking, while he seemed to avoid everything which could give a positive answer to that question. He began to notice himself that he laid stress precisely on those incidents which were of least interest to Marianna . . . and was constantly returning to them. Humorous descriptions made her impatient; a sceptical or dejected tone wounded her. . . . He had constantly to come to the 'cause,' the 'question.' Then on that subject no amount of talk weaned her. Nezhdanov was reminded of a summer he had spent with some old friends in the country before he was a student, when he used to tell stories to the children, and they, too, did not appreciate descriptions nor expressions of personal, individual sensation . . . they, too, had demanded action, facts! Marianna was not a child, but in the directness and simplicity of her feelings she was like one.
Nezhdanov praised Markelov with warmth and sincerity, and spoke with special appreciation of Solomin. Speaking almost in enthusiastic terms about him, he asked himself, what precisely was it gave him such a high opinion of that man? He had uttered nothing specially brilliant; some of his sayings seemed indeed directly opposed to his, Nezhdanov's, convictions. . . . 'He's a well-balanced character,' was his conclusion; 'that's it, businesslike, cool, as Fimushka said, a solid fellow; calm, strong force; he knows what he wants, and has confidence in himself, and arouses confidence in others; there's no excitement . . . and balance! balance! . . . That's the great thing; just what I haven't got.' Nezhdanov was silent, absorbed in reflection.. . . Suddenly he felt a caressing hand on his shoulder.
He raised his head; Marianna was looking at him with anxious, tender eyes.
'My dear! What is it?' she asked.
He took her hand from his shoulder, and for the first time kissed that strong little hand. Marianna gave a slight smile as though wondering how such a polite attention could occur to him. Then she in her turn grew thoughtful.
'Did Markelov show you Valentina Mihalovna's letter?' she asked at last.
'Yes.'
'Well . . . how was he?'
'He? He's the noblest, most unselfish fellow! He . . .' Nezhdanov was on the point of telling Marianna about the portrait—but he checked himself, and only repeated, 'the noblest fellow.'
'Oh, yes, yes!'
Marianna again fell to musing, and suddenly turning round towards Nezhdanov on the trunk which served them both for a seat, she said with vivid interest:
'Well, then, what did you decide?'
Nezhdanov shrugged his shoulders.
'Why, I've told you . . . nothing . . . as yet; we shall have to wait a little longer.'
'Wait longer?. . . What for?'
'Final instructions.' ('Of course that's a fib,' Nezhdanov thought.)
'From whom?'
'From . . . you know . . . Vassily Nikolaevitch. And, oh yes, we must wait too till Ostrodumov comes back.'
Marianna looked inquiringly at Nezhdanov.
'Tell me, did you ever see Vassily Nikolaevitch.'
'I have seen him twice . . . just a glimpse, that was all.'
'What is he?. . . a remarkable man?'
'How shall I tell you? He's the head now, and controls everything. We couldn't do without discipline in our work; obedience is essential.' ('And that's all rot,' was his inward comment.)
'What's he like to look at?'
'Oh, stumpy, heavy, dark.. . . High cheek-bones, like a Kalmik . . . a coarse face. Only he has very keen, bright eyes.'
'And how does he talk?'
'He does not talk, so much as command.'
'Why was he made head?'
'Oh, he's a man of character. He wouldn't stick at anything. If necessary he 'd kill any one. And so he's feared.'
'And what's Solomin like?' inquired Marianna, after a short pause.
'Solomin's not handsome either; only he has a nice, simple, honest face. You see faces like that among divinity students—the good ones.'
Nezhdanov described Solomin in detail. Marianna gazed a long . . . long time at Nezhdanov; then she said as though to herself: 'You have a good face too, I think; life would be sweet with you, Alexey.'
That saying touched Nezhdanov; he took her hand again, and was lifting it to his lips . . .
'Defer your civilities,' said Marianna smiling—she always smiled when her hand was kissed; 'you don't know; I've a sin to confess to you.'
'What have you done?'
'Why, in your absence I went into your room, and there on your table I saw a manuscript book of verses . . .'—(Nezhdanov started; he remembered that he had forgotten the book and left it on the table in his room)— 'and I must confess, I couldn't overcome my curiosity, and I read it. They are your verses, aren't they?'
'Yes; and do you know, Marianna, the best possible proof of how devoted I am to you and how I trust you, is that I'm hardly angry with you.'
'Hardly? Then, however little, you are angry? By the way, you call me Marianna—that's right; I can't call you Nezhdanov, I must call you Alexey. And the poem beginning: "My dear one, when I come to die," is that yours too?'
'Yes . . . yes. But please leave off. . . Don't torment me.'
Marianna shook her head.
'It's very melancholy—that poem. . . . I hope you wrote it before you knew me. But it's real poetry so far as I can judge. It seems to me you might have been an author, only I know for certain that you have a better, higher vocation than literature. It was all very well to be busy with that—before, when nothing else was possible.'
Nezhdanov bent a rapid glance upon her.
'You think so? Yes, I agree with you. Better failure in this than success in the other.'
Marianna rose impulsively.
'Yes, my dearest, you are right!' she cried, and her whole face was radiant, glowing with the fire and light of rapture, with the softening of generous emotion: 'you are right, Alexey! But perhaps we shall not fail at once; we shall succeed, you will see—we shall be useful, our life shall not be spent in vain, we will go and live among the people.. . . Do you know any trade? No? well, never mind, we will work, we will devote to them, our brothers, all we know. I will cook, and sew, and wash, if need be. . ., You shall see, you shall see.. . . And there'll be no merit in it—but happiness, happiness. . .,' Marianna broke off; but her eyes—fixed eagerly on the distant horizon, not that which spread out before her, but another unseen, unknown horizon perceived by her—her eyes glowed.. . .
Nezhdanov bent down before her.
'O Marianna!' he whispered, 'I'm not worthy of you!'
She suddenly shook herself.
'It's time to go home, high time!' she said, 'or they'll be looking for us again directly. Though Valentina Mihalovna, I think, has given me up. In her eyes I'm ruined!'
Marianna uttered this word with such a bright and happy face, that Nezhdanov could not help smiling too as he looked at her, and repeated, 'Ruined!'
'But she's terribly offended,' Marianna went on,'that you're not at her feet. But that's all of no consequence, there's something I must talk of.. . . You see, it will be impossible for me to stay here. . . . I shall have to run away.'
'Run away?' repeated Nezhdanov.
'Yes, run away.. . . You're not going to stay, are you? We will go together—we must work together.. . . You'll come with me, won't you?'
'To the ends of the earth!' cried Nezhdanov, and there was a sudden ring of emotion and a kind of impetuous gratitude in his voice. 'To the ends of the earth!' At that instant he would certainly have gone with her wherever she wished, without looking back.
Marianna understood him, and gave a short blissful sigh.
'Then take my hand, Alexey, only don't kiss it; and hold it tight, like a comrade, like a friend—there, so!'
They walked together to the house, pensive, blissful; the young grass caressed their feet, the young leaves stirred about them; patches of light and shade flittered swiftly over their garments; and they both smiled at the restless frolic of the light, and the merry bluster of the wind, and the fresh glitter of the leaves, and at their own youth and one another.