# Virgin Soil (Garnett)/Volume 2/Chapter 11

XXXI
'Is Nezhdanov not at home?' she asked; then, seeing Solomin, she went up to him, and gave him her hand. 'How are you, Solomin?' At Marianna she simply cast a sidelong glance.
'He will soon be back,' answered Solomin. 'But let me ask, from whom did you find out . . .?'
'From Markelov. Though indeed it's known in the town . . . to two or three people already.'
'Really?'
'Yes. Some one has blabbed. Besides, they say Nezhdanov himself has been recognised.'
'So much for this dressing-up business!' muttered Solomin. 'Let me introduce you,' he added aloud. 'Miss Sinetsky, Miss Mashurin! Pray sit down!'
Mashurina gave a slight nod and sat down.
'I have a letter for Nezhdanov; and for you, Solomin, a verbal message.'
'What sort of message? From whom?'
​'From a person you know.. . . How are things with you?. . . is everything ready?'
'Nothing is ready.'
Mashurina opened her tiny little eyes as wide as she could.
'Nothing?'
'Nothing.'
'You mean absolutely nothing?'
'Absolutely nothing.'
'Is that what I'm to say?'
'That's what you must say.'
Mashurina pondered a minute, then she took a cigarette out of her pocket.
'A light—can you give me?'
'Here's a match.'
Mashurina lighted her cigarette.
'They expected something quite different,' she began. 'And all around—it's not as it is with you. However, that's your affair. I'm not here for long. Only to see Nezhdanov and to give him the letter.'
'Where are you going?'
'Oh, a long way from here.' (She was in fact going to Geneva, but she did not care to tell Solomin so. She did not regard him as altogether trustworthy; besides, there was an 'outsider' sitting there. Mashurina, who hardly knew a word of German, was being sent to Geneva in order to hand to a person there ​utterly unknown to her, a torn scrap of cardboard with a vine-branch sketched on it, and two hundred and seventy-nine roubles.)
'Where's Ostrodumov? Is he with you?'
'No. He's near here . . . he got stuck on the way. But he'll come when he's wanted. Pimen's all right. No need to worry about him.'
'How did you come here?'
'In a cart . . . how else should I? Give me another match.. . .'
Solomin gave her a lighted match.
'Vassily Fedotitch!' a voice whispered all at once at the door. 'Please, sir!'
'Who's there? What do you want?'
'Please come,' the voice repeated with persuasive insistency. 'There's some strange workmen come here; they keep jawing away, and Pavel Yegoritch isn't here.'
Solomin excused himself, got up and went out.
Mashurina fell to staring at Marianna, and stared at her so long that the latter was quite out of countenance.
'Forgive me,' she said suddenly in her gruff, abrupt voice; 'I'm a rough sort, I don't know how to put things. Don't be angry; you needn't answer if you don't want to. Are you the girl that ran away from the Sipyagins'?'
​Marianna was somewhat disconcerted; however, she said, 'Yes.'
'With Nezhdanov?'
'Well, yes.'
'If you please . . . give me your hand. Forgive me, please. You must be good, since he loves you.'
Marianna pressed her hand.
'Do you know Nezhdanov well?'
'Yes, I know him. I used to see him in Petersburg. That's what makes me say so. Sergei Mihalitch, too, told me.. . .'
'Ah, Markelov! You have seen him lately?'
'Yes. Now he's gone away.'
'Where?'
'Where he was ordered.'
Marianna sighed.
'Ah, Miss Mashurin, I fear for him,'
'To begin with, I'm not "Miss." You ought to cast off all such manners. And, secondly . . . you say, "I fear." That won't do either. You will come not to fear for yourself, and to give up fearing for others. Though indeed I'll tell you what strikes me: it's easy for me, Fekla Mashurina, to talk like that. I'm ugly. But of course . . . you're a beauty. That must make it all the harder for you.' (Marianna looked down and turned away.) 'Sergei Mihalovitch told me.. . . He knew I ​had a letter for Nezhdanov. . . . "Don't go to the factory," he said to me, "don't take the letter; it will be the breaking-up of everything there. Stay away! They're both happy there. . . . So let them be! Don't meddle!" I should be glad not to meddle . . . but what was I to do about the letter?'
'You must give it without fail,' Marianna assented. 'But oh, how kind he is, Sergei Mihalitch! Can it be that he will be killed, Mashurina . . . or be sent to Siberia?'
'Well, what then? Don't people come back from Siberia? And as for losing one's life! Life's sweet to some, and to some it's bitter. His life is not made of refined sugar either.'
Mashurina again turned an intent and inquisitive gaze on Marianna.
'Yes, you are certainly beautiful,' she cried at last, 'a perfect little bird! I'm beginning to think Alexey's not coming.. . . Shouldn't I give you the letter? Why wait?'
'I will give it him, you may rest assured.'
Mashurina rested her cheek in her hand, and for a long, long time she did not speak.
'Tell me,' she began. . . 'excuse me . . . do you love him very much?'
'Yes.'
Mashurina shook her heavy head.
'Well, there's no need to inquire whether ​he loves you. I'm going, though, or perhaps I shall be too late. You tell him that I have been here . . . sent my greetings to him. Tell him Mashurina has been. You won't forget my name? No, Mashurina. And the letter. . . . Wait a bit, where have I put it to?. . .'
Mashurina stood up, turned away, making a pretence of rummaging in her pockets, but meanwhile she rapidly put into her mouth a little folded scrap of paper and swallowed it. 'Ah, my goodness! What a piece of idiocy! Can I have lost it? Lost it really is. What a misfortune! If any one were to find it! . . . No; it's nowhere. So it has turned out as Sergei Mihalitch wished, after all!'
'Look again,' whispered Marianna.
Mashurina waved her hand.
'No! What's the use? It's lost!'
Marianna went up to her.
'Well, kiss me, then!'
Mashurina suddenly took Marianna in her arms and pressed her to her bosom with more than a woman's force.
'I wouldn't have done that for anybody,' she said thickly, 'it's against my conscience . . . it's the first time! Tell him to be more careful.. . . And you too. Mind! It'll soon be a bad place for you here, very bad. Get away both of you, while . . . Good-bye!' she added ​in a loud sharp voice. 'But there's something else . . . tell him.. . . No, there's no need. It's no use.'
Mashurina went out, slamming the door, and Marianna was left pondering in the middle of the room.
'What does it all mean?' she said at last; 'why, that woman loves him more than I love him! And what was the meaning of her hints? And why did Solomin go out so suddenly and not come back?'
She began walking up and down. A strange sensation—a mixture of dismay and annoyance and bewilderment—took possession of her. Why had she not gone with Nezhdanov? Solomin had dissuaded her . . . and where was he himself? And what was going on all around her? Mashurina of course had not given her that fatal letter, out of sympathy for Nezhdanov.. . . But how could she bring herself to such an act of insubordination? Did she want to show her magnanimity? What right had she? And why had she, Marianna, been so much touched by that action? And was she really touched by it? An ugly woman was attracted by a young man.. . . After all, what was there out of the way in that? And why did Mashurina assume that Marianna's devotion to Nezhdanov was stronger than her ​sense of duty? Perhaps Marianna had not at all desired such a sacrifice! And what could have been contained in the letter? A call to immediate action? What then?
'And Markelov? He is in danger . . . and are we doing anything?' she asked herself. 'Markelov spares us both, gives us the chance of being happy, won't separate us . . . what is that? Magnanimity too . . . or contempt?
'And did we run away from that detestable house only to be together, billing and cooing like doves?'
Such were Marianna's meditations.. . . And stronger and stronger was the part played in her feelings by the same exasperated annoyance. However, her vanity had been wounded. Why had every one left her alone—every one?
This 'fat' woman had called her a beauty, a little bird . . . why not a doll at once? And why was it Nezhdanov had not gone alone but with Pavel? As though he needed some one to look after him! And after all, what were Solomin's convictions really? He wasn't a revolutionist at all! And was it possible anyone imagined that her attitude to it all was not a serious one?
Such were the thoughts that whirled chasing one another in confusion through Marianna's ​heated brain. Compressing her lips and folding her arms like a man, she sat down at last by the window, and again stayed immovable, not leaning back in her chair, all alertness and intensity, ready to spring up any minute. Go to Tatyana, work, she would not; she wanted to do one thing only; to wait! And she waited, obstinately, almost spitefully. From time to time her own mood struck her as strange and incomprehensible.. . . But it made no difference! Once it even occurred to her to wonder whether jealousy was not at the root of all her feeling. But recalling the figure of poor Mashurina, she merely shrugged her shoulders and dismissed the idea with a mental wave of her hand.
Marianna had long to wait; at last she caught the sound of two persons' steps mounting the stairs. She turned her eyes on the door . . . the steps drew nearer. The door opened and Nezhdanov, supported under Pavel's arm, appeared in the doorway. He was deadly pale, and without his cap; his dishevelled hair fell in moist tufts over his brow; his eyes were staring straight before him, seeing nothing. Pavel led him across the room (Nezhdanov's legs moved with an uncertain, feeble totter) and seated him on the sofa.
Marianna jumped up.
​'What is it? What's wrong with him? Is he ill?'
But as he settled Nezhdanov, Pavel answered her with a smile, looking round over his shoulder.
'Don't worry yourself, miss, it'll soon pass off. . . . It's just from not being used to it.'
'But what is it?' Marianna queried insistently.
'He's a little tipsy. Been drinking on an empty stomach; that's all!'
Marianna bent over Nezhdanov. He was half-lying across the sofa; his head had sunk on to his breast, his eyes were glassy.. . . He smelt of spirits; he was drunk.
'Alexey!' broke from her lips.
He raised his heavy eyelids with an effort and tried to smile.
'Ah! Marianna!' he stammered, 'you always talked of sim-sim-plification; see now, I'm really simplified. For the people's always drunk, so———'
He broke off; then muttered something indistinct, closed his eyes and fell asleep. Pavel laid him carefully on the sofa.
'Don't be worried, Marianna Vikentyevna,' he repeated, 'he'll sleep a couple of hours and wake up as good as new.'
Marianna was on the point of asking how it ​had happened; but her questions would have detained Pavel; and she wanted to be alone . . . that is, she did not want Pavel to see him in such a disgraceful state before her longer than could be avoided. She turned away to the window, while Pavel, who had taken in the situation at a glance, carefully covered Nezhdanov's legs with the skirts of his long coat, put a pillow under his head, once more murmured, 'It's nothing!' and went out on tiptoe.
Marianna looked round. Nezhdanov's head sank heavily into the pillow: on his white face could be seen a tense immobility, as on the face of a man mortally sick.
'How did it happen?' she thought.