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Updated: June 4, 2025
"I wish she had not interrupted me though. However, I suppose it's for the best." The next morning Nejdanov called at Sipiagin's townhouse and was shown into a magnificent study, furnished in a rather severe style, but quite in keeping with the dignity of a statesman of liberal views.
With Nejdanov he behaved in a very peculiar manner. He was attracted to the young student and felt an almost tender sympathy for him. At one part of the discussion, where Nejdanov broke out into a perfect torrent of words, Solomin got up quietly, moved across the room with long strides, and shut a window that was standing open just above Nejdanov's head.
"However," she added, "I am convinced that you only say these things for the sake of argument. Nejdanov blushed, bent over his plate, and mumbled something; he did not feel shy, but was simply unaccustomed to conversing with such brilliant personages. Madame Sipiagin continued smiling to him; her husband nodded his head patronisingly.
But instead of Pavel, Nejdanov appeared in the doorway. He staggered and steadied himself on the doorpost. He opened his mouth feebly, looked around with his glassy eyes, comprehending nothing. Paklin was the first to approach him. "Aliosha!" he exclaimed, "don't you know me?" Nejdanov stared at him, blinking slowly. "Paklin?" he said at last. "Yes, it is I. Aren't you well?" "No... I'm not well.
On their entrance he jumped up, rushed up to them, went red in the face, shouted for some refreshments to be brought quickly, asked them some questions, laughed for no reason in particular, and all this in one breath. He knew Markelov and Solomin, but had not yet met Nejdanov.
Nothing hurt or offended Nejdanov more than the smallest allusion to his poetry, which he regarded as an unpardonable weakness in himself. His Swiss schoolmaster had taught him a great many things, and he was not afraid of hard work. He applied himself readily and zealously, but did not work consecutively. All his friends loved him.
Ostrodumov remained motionless for a time, then he looked around, stood up, bent down, turned up one of the legs of his trousers, and carefully pulled a piece of blue paper out of his high boot, blew at it for some reason or another, and handed it to Nejdanov. The latter took the piece of paper, unfolded it, read it carefully, and passed it on to Mashurina.
She came up to Nejdanov, breathless. "Alexai Dmitritch! What is the matter with you?" But a darkness had already descended upon him. Tatiana bent over and noticed blood... "Pavel!" she shouted at the top of her voice, "Pavel!" A minute or two later, Mariana, Solomin, Pavel, and two workmen were in the garden.
He wanted to slip past her, when she stopped him with a quick movement of the hand. "Mr. Markelov... you must no doubt have thought, when you saw us both confused, that we had come there by appointment." "It did seem a little strange to me " Nejdanov began. "Mr. Markelov," Mariana interrupted him, "proposed to me... and I refused him. That is all I wanted to say to you. Goodnight.
He fully realised the sacrifice Markelov was making, but why, why especially to him? Should he give back the portrait? No! that would be the grossest insult. And after all, was not the face dear to him? Did he not love her? Nejdanov turned his gaze on Markelov not without some inward misgiving. "Was he not looking at him, trying to guess his thoughts?"
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