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Updated: June 1, 2025
THE guests turned out to be no other than our old friends Mashurina and Ostrodumov. They were both sitting in the poorly-furnished drawing room of Markelov's house, smoking and drinking beer by the light of a kerosene lamp.
On the way he fell in with some peasants carting manure, a few of Markelov's former serfs. He entered into conversation with them, but was very little the wiser for it. They, too, seemed weary, but with a normal physical weariness, quite unlike the sensation experienced by him.
She conducted Nejdanov into her boudoir, a cosy, charming room, filled with the scent of flowers and perfumes, the pure freshness of feminine garments, the constant presence of a woman. She made him sit down in an armchair, sat down beside him, and began questioning him about his visit, about Markelov's way of living, with much tact and sweetness.
In the morning he got up late with a bad headache. He dressed, went up to the window of his attic, and looked out upon Markelov's farm. It was practically a mere nothing; the tiny little house was situated in a hollow by the side of a wood.
What inspired him would be difficult to say; was it remorse for having been inactive of late, annoyance with himself and with others, a desire to drown the gnawings of an inner pain, or merely to show off before his comrades, whom he had not seen for some time, or had Markelov's words really had some effect upon him, fired his blood?
She was very much concerned about what he might hear at Markelov's, and begged him to tell her everything. "Of course!" he replied. "After all," he thought, "why should we be disturbed? In our friendship personal feeling played only... a secondary part, and we are united forever. In the name of the cause? Yes, in the name of the cause!"
But with our spiritual ... but that is another matter. We may see it in that way now; there is nothing to hinder us." "Then why do you " "What?" "Why do you follow this road?" "Because there is no other. I mean that my aims are the same as Markelov's but our paths are different." "Poor Sergai Mihailovitch!" Mariana exclaimed sadly. Solomin passed his hand cautiously over hers.
Markelov's tiny little village, Borsionkov, consisting of about two hundred acres in all, and bringing him in an income of seven hundred roubles a year, was situated about three miles away from the provincial town, seven miles off from Sipiagin's village. To get to Borsionkov from Sipiagin's, one had to go through the town.
Nejdanov marvelled inwardly, not so much at Kisliakov's conceit, as at Markelov's honest simplicity. "Bother aestheticism! Mr. Kisliakov may be even useful," he thought to himself instantly. The three friends gathered together for tea in the dining-room, but last night's conversation was not renewed between them.
"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!" I will exert myself only on Markelov's account, our good Markelov!
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