timidity and his purity, and considered it his duty to scoff at all idealism. He had an affectionate heart, but held himself aloof from everybody, was easily exasperated, but never bore ill-will. He was furious with his father for having made him take up “aesthetics,” openly interested himself in politics and social questions, professed the most extreme views (which meant more to him than mere words), but secretly took a delight in art, poetry, beauty in all its manifestations, and in his inspired moments wrote verses. It is true that he carefully hid the copy-book in which they were written, and none of his St. Petersburg friends, with the exception of Paklin, and he only by his peculiar intuitiveness, suspected its existence. 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. They were attracted by his natural sense of justice, his kindness, and his pure-mindedness, but Nejdanov was not born under a lucky star, and did not find life an easy matter. He was fully conscious of this fact and felt utterly lonely in spite of the untiring devotion of his friends.
He stood meditating at the window. Sad, oppressive thoughts rose up in his mind one after another about the prospective journey, the new and unexpected change that was coming into his life. He had no regrets at the thought of leaving St. Petersburg, as he would leave nothing behind that was especially dear to him, and he knew that he would be back in the autumn; but he was pervaded by the spirit of indecision, and an involuntary melancholy came over him.
“A fine tutor I shall make!” flashed across his mind. “Am I cut out for a schoolmaster?” He was ready to reproach himself for having undertaken the duties of a tutor, and would have been unjust in doing so. Nejdanov was sufficiently cultured, and, in spite of his uncertain temperament, children grew readily fond of him and he of them. His depression was due to that feeling which takes possession of one before any change of place, a feeling experienced by all melancholy, dreaming people and unknown to those of energetic, sanguine temperaments, who always rejoice at any break in the humdrum of their daily existence, and welcome a change of abode with pleasure. Nejdanov was so lost in his meditations that his thoughts began quite unconsciously to take the form of words. His wandering sensations began to arrange themselves into measured cadences.
“Damn!” he exclaimed aloud. “I’m wandering off into poetry!” He shook himself and turned away from the window. He caught sight of Paklin’s ten-rouble note, put it in his pocket, and began pacing up and down the room.
“I must get some money in advance,” he thought to himself. “What a good thing this gentleman suggested it. A hundred roubles … a hundred from my brothers—their excellencies. … I want fifty to pay my debts, fifty or seventy for the journey—and the rest Ostrodumov can have. Then there are Paklin’s ten roubles in addition, and I dare say I can get something from Merkulov—”
In the midst of these calculations the rhythmic cadences began to reassert themselves. He stood still, as if rooted to the spot, with fixed gaze. After a while his hands involuntarily found their way to the table drawer, from which he pulled out a much-used copy-book. He dropped into a chair with the same fixed look, humming softly to himself and every now and again shaking back his wavy hair, began writing line after line, sometimes scratching out and rewriting.
The door leading into the passage opened slightly and Mashurina’s head appeared. Nejdanov did not notice her and went on writing. Mashurina stood looking at him intently for some time, shook her head, and drew it back again. Nejdanov sat up straight, and suddenly catching sight of her, exclaimed with some annoyance: “Oh, is that you?” and thrust the copy-book into the drawer again.
Mashurina came into the room with a firm step.
“Ostrodumov asked me to come,” she began deliberately.
“He would like to know when we can have the money. If you could get it today, we could start this evening.”
“I can’t get it today,” Nejdanov said with a frown. “Please come tomorrow.”
“At what time?”
“Two o’clock.”
“Very well.”
Mashurina was silent for a while and then extended her hand.
“I am afraid I interrupted you. I am so sorry. But then … I am going away … who knows if we shall ever meet again … I wanted to say goodbye to you.”
Nejdanov pressed her cold, red fingers. “You know the man who was here today,” he began. “I have come to terms with him, and am going with him. His place is down in the province of S., not far from the town itself.”
A glad smile lit up Mashurina’s face.
“Near S. did you say? Then we may see each other again perhaps. They might send us there!” Mashurina sighed. “Oh, Alexai Dmitritch—”
“What is it?” Nejdanov asked.
Mashurina looked intense.
“Oh, nothing. Goodbye. It’s nothing.” She squeezed Nejdanov’s hand a second time and went out.
“There is not a soul in St. Petersburg who is so attached to me as this eccentric person,” he thought. “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. The gentleman himself was sitting before an enormous bureau, piled up with all sorts of useless papers, arrayed in the strictest order, and numerous ivory paper-knives, which had never been known to cut anything. During the space of an hour Nejdanov listened to the wise, courteous, patronising speeches of his host, received a hundred roubles, and ten days later was leaning back in the plush seat of a reserved first-class compartment, side by side with this same wise, liberal politician, being borne along to Moscow on the jolting lines of the Nikolaevsky Railway.
V
IN the drawing room of a large stone house with a Greek front—built in the twenties of the present century by Sipiagin’s father, a well-known landowner, who was distinguished by the free use of his fists—Sipiagin’s wife, Valentina Mihailovna, a very beautiful woman, having been informed by telegram of her husband’s arrival, sat expecting him every moment. The room was decorated in the best modern taste. Everything in it was charming and inviting, from the wails hung in variegated cretonne and beautiful curtains, to the various porcelain, bronze, and crystal knickknacks arranged upon the tables and cabinets; the whole blending together into a subdued harmony and brightened by the rays of the May sun, which was streaming in through the wide-open windows. The still air, laden with the scent of lily-of-the-valley (large bunches of these beautiful spring flowers were placed about the room), was stirred from time to time by a slight breeze from without, blowing gently over the richly grown garden.
What a charming picture! And the mistress herself, Valentina Mihailovna Sipiagina, put the finishing touch to it, gave it meaning and life. She was a tall woman of about thirty, with dark brown hair, a fresh dark complexion, resembling the Sistine Madonna, with wonderfully deep, velvety eyes. Her pale lips were somewhat too full, her shoulders
