This time it was harnessed to two horses, not three, as the third had been newly shod, and was a little lame.

Markelov had spoken very little during the meal, had eaten nothing whatever, and breathed with difficulty. He let fall a few bitter remarks about his farm and threw up his arms in despair. "All the same, it will have to be altered afterwards!"

Mashurina asked Nejdanov if she might come with him as far as the town, where she had a little shopping to do. "I can walk back afterwards or, if need be, ask the first peasant I meet for a lift in his cart."

Markelov accompanied them to the door, saying that he would soon send for Nejdanov again, and then..., then (he trembled suddenly, but pulled himself together) they would have to settle things definitely. Solomin must also come. He (Markelov) was only waiting to hear from Vassily Nikolaevitch, and that as soon as he heard from him there would be nothing to hinder them from making a "beginning," as the masses (the same masses who failed to understand the word "participation") refused to wait any longer!

"Oh, by the way, what about those letters you wanted to show me? What is the fellow's name... Kisliakov?" Nejdanov asked.

"Later on... I will show them to you later on. We can do it all at the same time."

The carriage moved.

"Hold yourself in readiness!" Markelov's voice was heard again, as he stood on the doorstep. And by his side, with the same hopeless dejection in his face, straightening his bent back, his hands clasped behind him, diffusing an odour of rye bread and mustiness, not hearing a single word that was being said around him, stood the model servant, his grandfather's decrepit old valet.

Mashurina sat smoking silently all the way, but when they reached the town gates she gave a loud sigh.

"I feel so sorry for Sergai Mihailovitch," she remarked, her face darkening.

"He is over-worked, and it seems to me his affairs are in a bad way," Nejdanov said.

"I was not thinking of that."

"What were you thinking of then?"

"He is so unhappy and so unfortunate. It would be difficult to find a better man than he is, but he never seems to get on."

Nejdanov looked at her.

"Do you know anything about him?"

"Nothing whatever, but you can see for yourself. Goodbye, Alexai Dmitritch." Mashurina clambered out of the carriage.

An hour later Nejdanov was rolling up the courtyard leading to Sipiagin's house. He did not feel well after his sleepless night and the numerous discussions and explanations.

A beautiful face smiled to him out of the window. It was Madame Sipiagina welcoming him back home.

"What glorious eyes she has!" he thought.





XII

A GREAT many people came to dinner. When it was over, Nejdanov took advantage of the general bustle and slipped away to his own room. He wanted to be alone with his own thoughts, to arrange the impressions he had carried away from his recent journey. Valentina Mihailovna had looked at him intently several times during dinner, but there had been no opportunity of speaking to him. Mariana, after the unexpected freak which had so bewildered him, was evidently repenting of it, and seemed to avoid him. Nejdanov took up a pen to write to his friend Silin, but he did not know what to say to him. There were so many conflicting thoughts and sensations crowding in upon him that he did not attempt to disentangle them, and put them off for another day.

Kollomietzev had made one of the guests at dinner. Never before had this worthy shown so much insolence and snobbish contemptuousness as on this occasion, but Nejdanov simply ignored him.

He was surrounded by a sort of mist, which seemed to hang before him like a filmy curtain, separating him from the rest of the world. And through this film, strange to say, he perceived only three faces—women's faces—and all three were gazing at him intently. They were Madame Sipiagina, Mashurina, and Mariana. What did it mean? Why particularly these three? What had they in common, and what did they want of him?

He went to bed early, but could not fall asleep. He was haunted by sad and gloomy reflections about the inevitable end—death. These thoughts were familiar to him, many times had he turned them over this way and that, first shuddering at the probability of annihilation, then welcoming it, almost rejoicing in it. Suddenly a peculiarly familiar agitation took possession of him... He mused awhile, sat down at the table, and wrote down the following lines in his sacred copy-book, without a single correction:

When I die, dear friend, remember This desire I tell to thee: Burn thou to the last black ember All my heart has writ for me. Let the fairest flowers surround me, Sunlight laugh about my bed, Let the sweetest of musicians To the door of death be led. Bid them sound no strain of sadness—Muted string or muffled drum; Come to me with songs of gladness—Whirling in the wild waltz come! I would hear—ere yet I hear not—Trembling strings their cadence keep, Chords that quiver: so I also Tremble as I fall asleep. Memories of life and laughter, Memories of earthly glee, As I go to the hereafter All my lullaby shall be.

When he wrote the word "friend" he thought of Silin.