Her wrath was choking her. She could not contain herself, and had resolved on giving full vent to it, but words failed her. Mariana belonged to a particular class of unfortunate beings, very plentiful in Russia, whom justice satisfies, but does not rejoice, while injustice, against which they are very sensitive, revolts them to their innermost being. All the time she was speaking, Nejdanov watched her intently. Her flushed face, her short, untidy hair, the tremulous twitching of her thin lips, struck him as menacing, significant, and beautiful. A ray of sunlight, broken by a net of branches, lay across her forehead like a patch of gold. And this tongue of fire seemed to be in keeping with the keen expression of her face, her fixed wide-open eyes, the earnest sound of her voice.

"Tell me why you think me unhappy," Nejdanov observed at last. "Do you know anything about me?

"Yes."

"What do you know? Has anyone been talking to you about me?

"I know about your birth."

"Who told you?

"Why, Valentina Mihailovna, of course, whom you admire so much. She mentioned in my presence, just in passing you know, but quite intentionally, that there was a very interesting incident in your life. She was not condoling the fact, but merely mentioned it as a person of advanced views who is above prejudice. You need not be surprised; in the same way she tells every visitor that comes that my father was sent to Siberia for taking bribes. However much she may think herself an aristocrat, she is nothing more than a mere scandal-monger and a poser. That is your Sistine Madonna!"

"Why is she mine in particular?"

Mariana turned away and resumed her walk down the path.

"Because you had such a long conversation together," she said, a lump rising in her throat.

"I scarcely said a word the whole time," Nejdanov observed. "It was she who did the talking."

Mariana walked on in silence. A turn in the path brought them to the end of the grove in front of which lay a small lawn; a weeping silver birch stood in the middle, its hollow trunk encircled by a round seat. Mariana sat down on this seat and Nejdanov seated himself at her side. The long hanging branches covered with tiny green leaves were waving gently over their heads. Around them masses of lily-of-the-valley could be seen peeping out from amidst the fine grass. The whole place was filled with a sweet scent, refreshing after the very heavy resinous smell of the pine trees.

"So you want to see the school," Mariana began; "I must warn you that you will not find it very exciting. You have heard that our principal master is the deacon. He is not a bad fellow, but you can't imagine what nonsense he talks to the children. There is a certain boy among them, called Garacy, an orphan of nine years old, and, would you believe it, he learns better than any of the others!"

With the change of conversation, Mariana herself seemed to change. She turned paler, became more composed, and her face assumed an expression of embarrassment, as if she were repenting of her outburst. She evidently wished to lead Nejdanov into discussing some "question" or other about the school, the peasants, anything, so as not to continue in the former strain. But he was far from "questions" at this moment.

"Mariana Vikentievna," he began; "to be quite frank with you, I little expected all that has happened between us." (At the word "happened" she drew herself up.) "It seems to me that we have suddenly become very... very intimate. That is as it should be. We have for some time past been getting closer to one another, only we have not expressed it in words. And so I will also speak to you frankly. It is no doubt wretched for you here, but surely your uncle, although he is limited, seems a kind man, as far as one can judge. Doesn't he understand your position and take your part?"

"My uncle, in the first place, is not a man, he's an official, a senator, or a minister, I forget which; and in the second, I don't want to complain and speak badly of people for nothing. It is not at all hard for me here, that is, nobody interferes with me; my aunt's petty pin-pricks are in reality nothing to me...