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Updated: June 6, 2025
Thus Nejdanov thought, and he did not himself suspect how much truth and how much falsehood there lay in his reflections. He found Markelov in the same weary, sullen frame of mind. After a very impromptu dinner they set out in the well-known carriage to the merchant Falyeva's cotton factory where Solomin lived. Nejdanov's curiosity had been aroused.
Solomin exclaimed as soon as they found themselves in the street, "I am going to take a cab and go straight back to the factory. What can we do here until dinnertime? A sheer waste of time, kicking our heels about, and I am afraid our worthy merchant is like the well-known goat, neither good for milk nor for wool." "The wool is there right enough," Markelov observed gloomily.
Mariana's contempt for aestheticism was no less strong than his, but for all that the main reason why she did not accept Markelov was because there was not the slightest trace of the aesthetic in his nature! She did not for a moment admit this to herself. It is often the case that what is strongest in us remains only a half-suspected secret.
"We are going to dine with a certain Golushkin a merchant here," Nejdanov replied. "At what time?" "At three o'clock." "Are you going to see him on account... on account " Paklin looked at Solomin who was smiling and at Markelov who sat enveloped in his gloom. "Come, Aliosha, tell them make some sort of Masonic sign.. tell them not to be on ceremony with me... I am one of you of your party."
"I understand now," Nejdanov began; "I understand your vexation and can guess... who spied on us and lost no time in letting you know " "It does not seem to depend on merit," Markelov continued, pretending not to have heard Nejdanov, and purposely drawling out each word in a sing-song voice, "no extraordinary spiritual or physical attractions.... Oh no!
Kollomietzev did not say anything. He belonged to that new species of money-lending landlord whom Markelov had mentioned in his last talk with Nejdanov, and was the more inhuman in his demands that he had no personal dealings with the peasants themselves. He never allowed them into his perfumed European study, and conducted all his business with them through his manager.
Do you know, I'm convinced that Valentina Mihailovna listened to us." "She wrote to Markelov about it," Nejdanov remarked. "Did she?" Mariana was silent for a while. She blushed all over, not from shame, but from another, deeper feeling. "She is a wicked, spiteful woman!" she said slowly and quietly. "She had no right to do such a thing! But it doesn't matter. Now tell me your news."
Nejdanov could not see his face very clearly, only his moustache stood out in a straight black line, but he had felt ever since the morning that there was something in Markelov that was best left alone, some mysteriously unknown worry. "I say, Sergai Mihailovitch," Nejdanov began, "do you really attach any importance to Mr. Kisliakov's letters that you gave me today?
But... goodbye! goodbye, Nejdanov, thou man to be pitied! And you, officer... ugh! misanthrope! goodbye!" He dragged himself away, limping and swaying from side to side, towards the oasis, while Markelov and Nejdanov sought out the posting inn where they had left their conveyance, ordered the horses to be harnessed, and half an hour later were driving along the high road.
As it was already at the end of May, and there was no urgent work to be done, Markelov had thought of felling a small birch wood, with such means as he had at his command, and had gone down there to see after it. Nejdanov felt a strange weariness at heart. So much had been said the night before about the impossibility of holding back any longer, about the necessity of making a beginning.
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