Virgin Soil (Volume 1)/Chapter 11
XI
These guests turned out to be our old friends, Ostrodumov and Mashurina. They were both sitting in the small and very poorly furnished drawing-room of Markelov's house, drinking beer and smoking by the light of a kerosene lamp. They were not surprised at Nezhdanov's arrival; they knew Markelov intended to bring him with him; but Nezhdanov was much surprised at seeing them. When he came in, Ostrodumov observed, 'How are you, brother?' and that was all. Mashurina first turned crimson all over, then held out her hand. Markelov explained to Nezhdanov that Ostrodumov and Mashurina had been sent down 'on the cause,' which was bound shortly now to take practical shape; that they had come from Petersburg a week ago; that Ostrodumov was remaining in S——— province for propaganda purposes, while Mashurina was going to K——— to see a certain person there.
Markelov suddenly grew hot, though no one had contradicted him. He gnawed his moustache, and with flashing eyes began to speak in a hoarse, agitated, but distinct voice of hideous acts of injustice that had been committed, of the necessity for immediate action, maintaining that practically everything was ready, and none but cowards could procrastinate; that some violence was as essential as the lancet's prick to the abscess, however ready to break the abscess might be! He repeated this simile of the lancet several times; it obviously pleased him; he had not invented it, but had read it in some book. It seemed that, having lost all hope of Marianna's reciprocating his feelings, he felt he had nothing now to lose, and only thought how to set to work as soon as might be 'for the cause.' His words came like the blows of an axe, with absolute directness, sharply, simply, and vindictively; monotonous and weighty, they fell one after another from his blanched lips, recalling the sharp, abrupt bark of a grim old watchdog. He said he knew the peasants of the neighbourhood and the factory hands well, and that there were capable people among them─Eremey of Goloplyok, for instance─who would be ready for anything you like any minute. The name of Eremey from the village of Goloplyok was constantly on his tongue. At every tenth word he struck the table with his right hand, not with the palm, but with the edge of his hand, while he thrust his left into the air, with the first finger held apart from the rest; and those hairy, sinewy hands, that finger, the droning voice, and the blazing eyes, produced a powerful impression. On the road Markelov had said little to Nezhdanov; his anger had been rising . . . but now it broke out. Mashurina and Ostrodumov applauded him with a smile, a glance, sometimes a brief exclamation, but in Nezhdanov something strange was taking place. First he tried to reply; he referred to the harm done by haste, by premature, ill-considered action; above all, he was surprised to find it all so decided, that no doubt was felt, and no consciousness of the necessity of examining into the circumstances of the place, nor even of trying to find out precisely what the people wanted.. . . But afterwards his nerves were wrought upon and quivering like harpstrings, and in a sort of desperation, almost with tears of rage in his eyes, his voice breaking into a scream, he began speaking in the same spirit as Markelov, going further even than he had done. What impulse was working in him it would be hard to say. Was it remorse for having been, as it were, lukewarm of late? was it vexation with himself or with others, or the longing to stifle some worm gnawing within? or indeed was it a desire to show off before the comrades he was meeting again? . . . or had Markelov's words really influenced him─fired his blood? Till the very dawn the conversation continued; Ostrodumov and Mashurina did not stir from their seats, while Markelov and Nezhdanov did not sit down. Markelov stood on the same spot, for all the world like a sentinel, while Nezhdanov kept walking up and down the room with unequal steps, now slowly, now hurriedly. They talked of the measures and means to be employed, of the part each ought to take on himself; they examined and tied up in parcels various tracts and leaflets; they referred to a merchant, a dissenter, one Golushkin, a very trustworthy though uneducated man; to the young propagandist, Kislyakov, who was, they said, very able, though over hasty, and had too high an opinion of his own talents; the name of Solomin, too, was mentioned.. . .
'Is that the man who manages a cotton factory?' inquired Nezhdanov, remembering what had been said of him at the Sipyagins' table.
'Yes, that is he,' answered Markelov; 'you must get to know him. We have not tested him thoroughly yet, but he's a capable, very capable, fellow.'
Eremey of Goloplyok again figured in the conversation; to him were added the Sipyagins' Kirill and a certain Mendeley, also nicknamed the Sulker; only it was difficult to reckon on the Sulker he was bold as a lion when sober, but a coward when he was drunk, and he almost always was drunk.
'And your own people, now,' Nezhdanov inquired of Markelov, 'are there any you can rely on?'
Markelov replied that there were some. He did not mention one of them by name, however, but went off into a discourse upon the artisans of the towns and the seminarists, who would be the more useful from their great bodily strength, and, if only it came to fighting with fists, would do great things! Nezhdanov made inquiries about the nobility. Markelov answered that there were five or six young noblemen; one of them, to be sure, was a German, and he the most radical of the lot, but, of course, there was no reckoning on a German . . . he might turn sulky or betray them any moment. But there, they must wait to see what news Kislyakov would send them. Nezhdanov inquired too about the army. At that Markelov hesitated, tugged at his long whiskers, and explained at last that there was nothing, so far, decisive.. . . Perhaps Kislyakov would have something to disclose.
'And who is this Kislyakov?' cried Nezhdanov impatiently.
Markelov smiled significantly, and said that he was a man . . . such a man.. . .
'I know him very little, though,' he added; 'I have only seen him twice altogether. But the letters that man writes! such letters!! I will show you them.. . . You will be astonished. Such fire! And his activity! Five or six times he has raced right across Russia and back . . . and from every station a letter of ten-twelve pages!'
Nezhdanov looked inquiringly at Ostrodumov, but he sat like a statue, not an eyebrow twitching, while Mashurina's lips were compressed in a bitter smile, but she, too, was dumb as a fish. Nezhdanov tried to question Markelov about his reforms in a socialistic direction on his estate . . . but at this Ostrodumov interposed.
'What's the good of discussing that now?' he observed. 'It makes no difference; everything must be transformed afterwards.'
The conversation turned again into a political channel. Nezhdanov was still devoured by a secret worm gnawing within; but the keener the inward torture, the more loudly and positively he spoke. He had drunk only one glass of beer, but from time to time it struck him that he was completely drunk; his head was in a whirl, and his heart throbbed painfully. When at last, at four o'clock in the morning, the discussion ceased, and, stepping over a little page asleep in the anteroom, they separated and went to their respective rooms, Nezhdanov, before he lay down, stood a long time motionless, his eyes fixed on the floor before him. He mused upon the continual, heartrending note of bitterness in all Markelov had uttered. The man's pride could not but be wounded; he was bound to be suffering, his hopes of personal happiness were shattered, and yet how he forgot himself─how utterly he gave himself up to what he held for the truth! 'A limited nature', was Nezhdanov's thought. . . . 'But isn't it a hundred times better to be such a limited nature than such . . . such as I, for instance, feel myself to be?
But at once he struggled against his own self-depreciation.
'Why so? Am not I, too, capable of sacrificing myself? Wait a bit, my friends. . . . And you, Paklin, shall be convinced in time that though I am an æsthetic, though I do write verses . . .'
He pushed his hair back angrily, ground his teeth, and, hurriedly pulling off his clothes, flung himself into the damp, chill bed.
`Sleep well!' Mashurina's voice called through the door. 'I am next door to you.'
'Good-night,' answered Nezhdanov, and then it came into his mind that she had not taken her eyes off him all the evening.
'What does she want?' he muttered, and at once felt ashamed of himself. 'Ah, to sleep as soon as maybe!'
But it was hard to master his overwrought nerves . . . and the sun stood high in the sky when at last he fell into a heavy, comfortless sleep.
The next morning he got up late with a headache. He dressed, went to the window of his attic room, and saw that Markelov had practically no farm at all. His little box of a house stood on a ravine not far from a wood. A little granary, a stable, a cellar, a little hut with a half tumble-down thatch-roof, on one side; on the other, a diminutive lake, a patch of kitchen garden, a hemp-field, another little hut with a similar roof; in the distance an outhouse, a barn, and an empty thrashing-floor—this was all the wealth that could be seen. It all seemed poor, decaying, and not exactly neglected or run wild, but as though it had never thrived, like a tree that has not taken root well. Nezhdanov went downstairs. Mashurina was sitting behind the tea-urn in the dining-room, evidently waiting for him. He learned from her that Ostrodumov had gone off, on the cause, and would not be back for a fortnight; and Markelov had gone to see after his labourers. As May was drawing to a close and there was no pressing work to be done, Markelov had a plan for felling a small birch copse without outside help, and had set off there early in the morning.
Nezhdanov felt a strange weariness at heart. So much had been said overnight of the impossibility of delaying longer, it had so often been repeated that the only thing left to do was 'to act.' But how act? in what direction, and how without delay? It was useless to question Mashurina; she knew no hesitation, she had no doubts as to what she had to do; it was to go to K———. Beyond that she did not look. Nezhdanov did not know what to say to her; and after drinking some tea, he put on his cap and went off in the direction of the birch copse. On the way he fell in with some peasants carting manure, formerly serfs of Markelov's. He began to talk to them . . . but did not get much out of them. They too seemed weary, but with an ordinary physical weariness, not at all like the feeling he was experiencing. Their former master, according to them, was a good-natured, simple gentleman, but queerish; they predicted his ruin, because 'he didn't understand how things should be done, and wanted to do things his own way, not as his fathers did before. And he's too wise, too you can't make him out, do what you will; but a good-hearted gentleman, if ever there was one.' Nezhdanov went on further and came upon Markelov himself.
He was walking surrounded by a whole crowd of workmen; from a distance it could be seen that he was talking and explaining something to them; then he gave a despairing wave of the hand, as though he gave it up! Beside him was his bailiff, a dull-eyed young man, with no trace of authority in his bearing. This bailiff continually repeated, 'That shall be as you please, sir,' to the intense annoyance of his master, who looked for more independence from him. Nezhdanov went up to Markelov, and on his face he saw traces of the same spiritual weariness he was feeling himself. They exchanged greetings; Markelov began speaking at once, briefly though, of the questions discussed overnight, of the impending revolution; but the expression of weariness did not leave his face. He was all over dust and perspiration; shavings of wood, green strands of moss were clinging to his clothes; his voice was hoarse.. . . The men standing round him were silent; they were half scared, half amused.. . . Nezhdanov looked at Markelov, and Ostrodumov's words re-echoed again in his head: 'What's the good? It makes no difference, it will all have to be transformed afterwards! ' One labourer who had been in fault somehow began entreating Markelov to let him off the fine for his mistake. . . Markelov at first flew into a rage, and shouted furiously at him, but afterwards he forgave him.. . . 'It makes no difference . . . it will all have to be changed later on. . .' Nezhdanov asked him for horses and a conveyance to return home; Markelov seemed surprised at his wish, but answered that everything should be ready directly.
He went back to the house with Nezhdanov. . . . He was staggering as he walked, from exhaustion.
'What's the matter with you?' asked Nezhdanov.
'I am worn out!' said Markelov savagely. 'However you talk to these people, they can't understand anything, and they won't carry out instructions.. . . They positively don't understand Russian. The word "part" they know well enough . . . but "participation." . . . What is participation? They can't understand. And yet it's a Russian word, too, damn it! They imagine I want to make them a present of part of the land!' Markelov had conceived the idea of explaining to the peasants the principles of co-operation, and introducing it on his estate, but they resisted. One of them had gone so far as to say in this connection, 'There was a pit deep enough before, but now there's no seeing the bottom of it' . . . while the other peasants had with one accord given vent to a profound sigh which had crushed Markelov utterly.
On reaching the house he dismissed his attendant retinue, and began to see about the carriage and horses, and about lunch. His household consisted only of a little page, a cook, a coachman, and a very aged man with hairy ears, in a long-skirted cotton coat, who had been his grandfather's valet. This old man was for ever gazing with profound dejection at his master; he did nothing, however, and was scarcely perhaps fit to do anything; but he was always there, crouched up on the doorsill.
After a lunch of hard-boiled eggs, anchovies, and cold hash─the page handed the mustard in an old pomatum pot and vinegar in an eau-de- cologne bottle─Nezhdanov took his seat in the same coach in which he had come overnight; but instead of three horses they only harnessed two; the third had been shod and lamed. During lunch Markelov had said little, eaten nothing, and had drawn his breath painfully.. . . He had uttered two or three bitter words about his property, and again waved his hand as though to say . . . 'It makes no difference, it will all have to be changed afterwards.' Mashurina asked Nezhdanov to take her as far as the town; she wanted to go there to do some shopping. I can walk back, or else get a lift in some peasant's cart.' Markelov escorted them both to the steps, and said vaguely that he should shortly come for Nezhdanov again; and then . . . then'─(he shook himself and plucked up his spirits again)─'they must come to a definite arrangement; that Solomin should come too; that he, Markelov, was only waiting for news from Vassily Nikolaevitch, and then it only remained to 'act' promptly since the peasants (the same peasants who did not understand the word 'participation') would not consent to wait longer!
'Oh, you were going to show me the letters of that what's his name─Kislyakov?' said Nezhdanov.
'Later . . .' Markelov replied hurriedly.. . . 'Then we will do everything altogether.'
The carriage started.
'Be in readiness!' Markelov's voice was heard for the last time. He was standing on the steps, and beside him, with the same unchanged dejection on his face, straightening his bent back, clasping his hands behind him, diffusing an odour of ryebread and cotton fustian, and hearing nothing, stood the model servant, the decrepit old valet.
All the way to the town Mashurina was silent; she only smoked a cigarette. As they drew near the barrier she suddenly gave a loud sigh.
'I'm sorry for Sergei Mihalovitch,' she observed, and her face darkened.
'He's quite knocked up with worry', remarked Nezhdanov; I think his land's in a poor way.'
'That's not why I'm sorry for him.'
'Why, then?'
He's an unhappy man, unlucky! Where could one find a better fellow? But no no one wants him anywhere.'
Nezhdanov looked at his companion.
`Do you know something about him, then?'
'I know nothing . . . but one sees it for oneself. Good-bye, Alexey Dmitritch.'
Mashurina got out of the coach, and an hour later Nezhdanov was driving into the courtyard of the Sipyagins' house. He did not feel very well. . . . He had spent a night without sleep . . . and then all the discussions . . . the talk.. . .
A beautiful face peeped out of a window and smiled graciously to him. . . . It was Madame Sipyagin welcoming him on his return.
'What eyes she has!' was his thought.