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Nejdanov turned to her quickly. "Yes, from memory." Mariana was surprised at his reply. It seemed to her that she merely thought the question. "It is really wonderful..." she continued in the same tone of voice. "Why, he can't draw at all. What was I talking about?" she added aloud. "Oh yes, it was about Dobrolubov's poems. One ought to write poems like Pushkin's, or even like Dobrolubov's.
Nejdanov began talking, talking incessantly, shouting furiously, in exasperation, shaking broad rough hands, kissing prickly beards. ... The enormous fellow in the greasy coat kissed him too, nearly breaking his ribs. This fellow turned out to be a perfect fiend. "I'll wring the neck," he shouted, "I'll wring the neck of anyone who dares to offend our brother!
They turned back to the house together, Markelov staggering as he walked. "What is the matter with you?" Nejdanov asked. "I am simply worn out!" Markelov began furiously. "No matter what you do, you simply can't make these people understand anything! They are utterly incapable of carrying out an order, and do not even understand plain Russian.
This girl who loved him a poor, homeless wretch, who trusted him, who was ready to follow him, pursue the same cause together with him this wonderful girl Mariana became for Nejdanov at this moment the incarnation of all earthly truth and goodness the incarnation of the love of mother, sister, wife, all the things he had never known; the incarnation of his country, happiness, struggle, freedom!
When the discussion came to an end at last at about four o'clock in the morning, and they all passed by the servant asleep in the anteroom on their way to their own rooms, Nejdanov, before retiring to bed, stood for a long time motionless, gazing straight before him. He was filled with wonder at the proud, heart-rending note in all that Markelov had said.
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."
It's true he doesn't care for me... I'm not good-looking enough, but it's possible to sell me. That would also be considered charity." "Why didn't you " Nejdanov began, but stopped short. Mariana looked at him for an instant. "You wanted to ask why I didn't accept Mr. Markelov, isn't that so? Well, what could I do? He's a good man, but it's not my fault that I don't love him."
Oh, if some one only knew how wretched I feel!" Markelov struck himself on the breast with his fist, a groan seemed to come from him. "Nejdanov. Be generous.... Give me your hand.... Say that you forgive me!" Nejdanov held out his hand irresolutely Markelov squeezed it so hard that he could almost have cried out. The carriage stopped at the door of the house.
He once happened to exchange a few words with the drunken Kirill, and even with Mendely the Sulky, but besides abuse about things in general he got nothing out of them. Another peasant, called Fituvy, completely nonplussed him. This peasant had an unusually energetic countenance, almost like some brigand. "Well, this one seems hopeful at any rate," Nejdanov thought.
Nejdanov was inwardly annoyed, Markelov angry and indignant, just as indignant, though in a different way, as he had been at the Subotchevs'; Solomin was observant. Paklin was in high spirits and delighted Golushkin with his sharp, ready wit.
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