Part 52

“That’s right.”

“Goodbye till we meet again. And thank you so much!”

“Goodbye, good night!”

“Goodbye, Nejdanov; till tomorrow,” she added, and went out quickly.

The young men remained for some time motionless, and both were silent.

“Nejdanov...” Solomin began at last, and stopped. “Nejdanov...” he began a second time, “tell me about this girl... tell me everything you can. What has her life been until now? Who is she? Why is she here?”

Nejdanov told Solomin briefly what he knew about her. “Nejdanov,” he said at last, “you must take great care of her, because... if... anything... were to happen, you would be very much to blame. Goodbye.”

He went out, while Nejdanov stood still for a time in the middle of the room, and muttering, “Oh dear! It’s better not to think!” threw himself face downwards on the bed.

When Mariana returned to her room she found a note on the table containing the following:

“I am sorry for you. You are ruining yourself. Think what you are doing. Into what abysses are you throwing yourself with your eyes shut. For whom and for what?—V.”

There was a peculiarly fine fresh scent in the room; evidently Valentina Mihailovna had only just left it. Mariana took a pen and wrote underneath: “You need not be sorry for me. God knows which of us two is more in need of pity. I only know that I wouldn’t like to be in your place for worlds.—M.” She put the note on the table, not doubting that it would fall into Valentina Mihailovna’s hand.

On the following morning, Solomin, after seeing Nejdanov and definitely declining to undertake the management of Sipiagin’s factory, set out for home. He mused all the way home, a thing that rarely occurred with him; the motion of the carriage usually had a drowsy effect on him. He thought of Mariana and of Nejdanov; it seemed to him that if he had been in love—he, Solomin—he would have had quite a different air, would have looked and spoken differently. “But,” he thought, “such a thing has never happened to me, so I can’t tell what sort of an air I would have.” He recalled an Irish girl whom he had once seen in a shop behind a counter; recalled her wonderful black hair, blue eyes, and thick lashes, and how she had looked at him with a sad, wistful expression, and how he had paced up and down the street before her window for a long time, how excited he had been, and had kept asking himself if he should try and get to know her. He was in London at the time, where he had been sent by his employer with a sum of money to make various purchases. He very nearly decided to remain in London and send back the money, so strong was the impression produced on him by the beautiful Polly. (He had got to know her name, one of the other girls had called her by it.) He had mastered himself, however, and went back to his employer. Polly was more beautiful than Mariana, but Mariana had the same sad, wistful expression in her eyes... and Mariana was a Russian.

“But what am I doing?” Solomin exclaimed in an undertone, “bothering about other men’s brides!” and he shook back the collar of his coat, as if he wanted to shake off all superfluous thoughts. Just then he drove up to the factory and caught sight of the faithful Pavel in the doorway of his little dwelling.

XXVI

Solomin’s refusal greatly offended Sipiagin; so much so, that he suddenly found that this home-bred Stevenson was not such a wonderful engineer after all, and that though he was not perhaps a complete poser, yet gave himself airs like the plebeian he was. “All these Russians when they imagine they know a thing become insufferable! Au fond Kollomietzev was right!” Under the influence of such hostile and irritable sensations, the statesman—en herbe—was even more unsympathetic and distant in his intercourse with Nejdanov. He told Kolia that he need not take lessons that day and that he must try to be more independent in future. He did not, however, dismiss the tutor himself as the latter had expected, but continued to ignore him. But Valentina Mihailovna did not ignore Mariana. A dreadful scene took place between them.

About two hours before dinner they suddenly found themselves alone in the drawing-room. They both felt that the inevitable moment for the battle had arrived and, after a moment’s hesitation, instinctively drew near to one another. Valentina Mihailovna was slightly smiling, Mariana pressed her lips firmly together; both were pale. When walking across the room, Valentina Mihailovna looked uneasily to the right and left and tore off a geranium leaf. Mariana’s eyes were fixed straight on the smiling face coming towards her. Madame Sipiagina was the first to stop, and drumming her finger-tips on the back of a chair began in a free and easy tone:

“Mariana Vikentievna, it seems that we have entered upon a correspondence with one another.... Living under the same roof as we do it strikes me as being rather strange. And you know I am not very fond of strange things.”

“I did not begin the correspondence, Valentina Mihailovna.”

“That is true. As it happens, I am to blame in that. Only I could not think of any other means of arousing in you a feeling... how shall I say? A feeling—”

“You can speak quite plainly, Valentina Mihailovna. You need not be afraid of offending me.”

“A feeling... of propriety.”

Valentina Mihailovna ceased; nothing but the drumming of her fingers could be heard in the room.

“In what way do you think I have failed to observe the rules of propriety?” Mariana asked.

Valentina Mihailovna shrugged her shoulders.

“Ma chère, vous n’êtes plus un enfant—I think you know what I mean. Do you suppose that your behaviour could have remained a secret to me, to Anna Zaharovna, to the whole household in fact? However, I must say you are not over-particular about secrecy. You simply acted in bravado. Only Boris Andraevitch does not know what you have done.... But he is occupied with far more serious and important matters. Apart from him, everybody else knows, everybody!”

Mariana’s pallor increased.

“I must ask you to express yourself more clearly, Valentina Mihailovna. What is it you are displeased about?”

“L’insolente!” Madame Sipiagina thought, but contained herself.