# Virgin Soil (Garnett)/Volume 1/Chapter 16

XVI
The next morning when Nezhdanov woke up he felt no embarrassment at the recollection of what had happened overnight; on the contrary, he was filled with a kind of serene and sober happiness, as though he had done something which ought really to have been done long before. Asking for two days' leave from Sipyagin, who consented at once, though stiffly, to his absence, Nezhdanov went to Markelov's. Before starting he succeeded in getting an interview with Marianna. She, too, was not at all ashamed or embarrassed; she looked calmly and resolutely at him, and calmly addressed him by his Christian name. She was only excited about what he would learn at Markelov's, and begged him to tell her everything.
'That's a matter of course,' answered Nezhdanov.
'And after all,' he reflected, 'why should we be disturbed? In our friendship, personal ​feeling has played . . . a secondary part─though we are united for ever. In the name of the cause? Yes, in the name of the cause!'
So fancied Nezhdanov, and he did not suspect how much of truth, and how much of falsehood, there was in his fancies.
He found Markelov in the same weary and morose frame of mind. They dined after a fashion, and then set off in the same old coach (they hired from a peasant a second trace-horse, a colt, who had never been in harness before─Markelov's horse was still lame) to the merchant Faleyev's big cotton factory, where Solomin lived. Nezhdanov's curiosity was aroused; he felt eager to make a closer acquaintance with a man of whom he had heard so much of late. Solomin was prepared for their visit; when the two travellers stopped at the gates of the factory and gave their names, they were promptly conducted into the unsightly little lodge occupied by the 'superintendent of the machinery.' He was himself in the chief wing of the building; while one of the workmen ran to fetch him, Nezhdanov and Markelov had time to go to the window and look about them. The factory was apparently in a flourishing condition and overburdened with work; from every side came ​the brisk, noisy hum of unceasing activity, the snorting and rattling of machines, the creaking of looms, the hum of wheels, the flapping of straps, while trollies, barrels, and loaded carts moved in and out; there was the sound of loudly shouted instructions, bells and whistles; workmen in smocks with belts round the waist, their hair bound round with a strap, work-girls in print dresses hurried by; horses were led by in harness.. . . There was the busy hum of the labour of thousands of human beings strained to their utmost. Everything moved in regular, rational fashion, at full speed; but not only was there no attempt at style or neatness, there was not even any trace of cleanliness to be observed in anything anywhere; on the contrary, on all sides one was impressed by neglect, filth, grime. Here a window was broken and there the plaster was peeling off, the boards were loose, a door yawned wide open; a great, black puddle, covered with an irridescent film of slime, stood in the middle of the principal courtyard; further on lay some discarded bricks; bits of matting and sailcloth, boxes, scraps of rope lay wallowing in the mud; shaggy and lean dogs crept about, not even barking; in a corner under a fence sat a pot-bellied, dishevelled little boy of four, covered from head to foot with soot, crying ​hopelessly as though he had been deserted by the whole world; beside him, besmeared with the same soot, a sow, surrounded by a litter of spotted sucking pigs, was inspecting some cabbage stalks; ragged linen was fluttering on a line; and what an odour, what a stench everywhere! A Russian mill, in fact; not a German or a French factory.
Nezhdanov glanced at Markelov.
'I have heard so much talked about Solomin's great abilities,' he began, 'that, I confess, all this disorder rather surprises me; I didn't expect it.'
'It isn't disorder,' answered Markelov grimly, 'it's the Russian sluttishness. For all that, it's turning over millions! And he has to adapt himself to the old ways, and to practical needs, and to the owner himself. Have you any notion what Faleyev's like?'
'Not the slightest.'
'The greatest skinflint in Moscow. A bourgeois─that's the word for him!'
At that instant Solomin came into the room. Again Nezhdanov was fated to be disappointed in him, as in the factory. At first sight Solomin gave one the impression of being a Finn or, still more, a Swede. He was tall, lean, broad-shouldered, with light eyebrows and eyelashes; he had a long yellow face, a short broad ​nose, very small greenish eyes, a placid expres- sion, large prominent lips, white teeth, also large, and a cleft chin covered with a faint down. He was dressed as a mechanic or stoker; an old pea-jacket with baggy pockets on his body, a crumpled oilskin cap on his head, a woollen comforter round his neck, and tarred boots on his feet. He was accompanied by a man about forty, in a rough peasant coat, with an exceedingly mobile gipsy face and keen jet-black eyes, with which he at once scanned Nezhdanov, as soon as he came into the room.. . . Markelov he knew already. His name was Pavel; he was said to be Solomin's right hand.
Solomin approached his two visitors without haste, pressed the hand of each of them in his horny, bony hand, without a word, took a sealed packet out of the table-drawer and handed it, also without a word, to Pavel, who at once went out of the room. Then he stretched, and cleared his throat; flinging his cap off his head with one wave of his hand, he sat down on a wooden, painted stool, and, motioning Markelov and Nezhdanov to a similar sofa, he said, 'Please sit down.'
Markelov first introduced Solomin to Nezhdanov; he again shook hands with him. Then Markelov began talking of the 'cause,' and ​mentioned Vassily Nikolaevitch's letter. Nezhdanov handed the letter to Solomin. While he read it, attentively and deliberately, his eyes moving on from line to line, Nezhdanov watched him. Solomin was sitting near the window; the sun, now low in the sky, threw a glaring light on his tanned, slightly perspiring face and his light, dusty hair, showing up a number of golden threads among them. His nostrils quivered as his breath came and went while he read, and his lips moved as though he were forming each word; he held the letter with a strong grip, rather high up with both hands. All this, for some unknown reason, pleased Nezhdanov. Solomin gave the letter back to Nezhdanov, smiled at him, and again began listening to Markelov. The latter talked and talked, but at last he ceased.
'Do you know what', began Solomin, and his voice, rather hoarse, but young and powerful, pleased Nezhdanov too, it's not quite convenient here at my place; let us go to your house, it's not more than five miles to you. I suppose you came in the coach?'
'Yes.'
​'Till the day after to-morrow.'
'That's capital. We will stay the night with Mr. Markelov. Can we do that, Sergei Mihalitch?'
'What a question! Of course you can.'
'Well, I'll be ready directly. Only let me clean myself up a bit.'
'And how are things going with you at the factory?' Markelov inquired significantly.
Solomin looked away.
'We will have a talk,' he said a second time. 'Wait a little. . . . I'll be back directly. . . . I've forgotten something.'
He went out. If it had not been for the good impression he had made on Nezhdanov, the latter would probably have thought, and perhaps even have said to Markelov, 'Isn't he shuffling out of it?' But no question of the sort even entered his head.
An hour later, at the time when from every floor of the vast building, on every staircase, and at every door the noisy crowd of factory hands were streaming out, the coach, in which were seated Markelov, Nezhdanov, and Solomin, drove out of the gates on to the road.
'Vassily Fedotitch! is it to be done?' Pavel, who had escorted Solomin to the gate, shouted after him.
'No; wait a little' . . . answered Solomin. ​'That refers to a night operation,' he explained to his companion.
They reached Borzyonkovo; and had supper, rather for the sake of manners. Then cigars were lighted and the talk began, one of those interminable, midnight, Russian talks, which of the same form and on the same scale are hardly to be found in any other people. Here too, though, Solomin did not fulfil Nezhdanov's expectations. He spoke noticeably little . . . so little, that one might say he was almost continually silent; but he listened intently, and if he uttered any criticism or remark, then it was sensible, weighty, and very brief. It turned out that Solomin did not believe that a revolution was at hand in Russia; but not wishing to force his opinions on others, he did not try to prevent them from making an attempt, and looked on at them, not from a distance, but as a comrade by their side. He was very intimate with the Petersburg revolutionists, and was to a certain extent in sympathy with them, since he was himself one of the people; but he realised the instinctive aloofness from the movement of the people, without whom 'you can do nothing,' and who need a long preparation, and that not in the manner nor by the means of these men. And so he stood aside, not in a hypocritical or shifty ​way, but like a man of sense who doesn't care to ruin himself or others for nothing. But as for listening . . . why not listen, and learn too, if one can? Solomin was the only son of a deacon; he had five sisters, all married to village priests or deacons; but with the consent of his father, a steady, sober man, he had given up the seminary, had begun to study mathematics, and had devoted himself with special ardour to mechanics; he had entered the business of an Englishman, who had come to love him like a father, and had given him the means of going to Manchester, where he spent two years and learned English. He had lately come into the Moscow merchant's factory, and though he was exacting with subordinates, because that was the way of doing things he had learned in England, he was in high favour with them; 'he's one of ourselves,' they used to say. His father was much pleased with him; he used to call him 'a very steady-going chap,' and his only complaint was that his son didn't want to get married.
During the midnight conversation at Markelov's, Solomin was, as we have said already, almost completely silent; but when Markelov began discussing the expectations he had formed of the factory hands, Solomin, with his habitual brevity, observed that with us in ​Russia, factory workers are not what they are abroad─they're the meekest set of people.
'And the peasants?' inquired Markelov.
'The peasants? There are pretty many of the close-fisted, money-lending sort among them now, and every year there'll be more; but they only know their own interest; the rest are sheep, blind and ignorant.'
'Then where are we to look?'
Solomin smiled.
'Seek and ye shall find.'
He was almost constantly smiling, and the smile, like the man himself, was peculiarly guileless, but not meaningless. To Nezhdanov he behaved in quite a special way; the young student had awakened a feeling of interest, almost of tenderness, in him.
During this same midnight discussion, Nezhdanov suddenly got flushed and hot, and broke into an outburst; Solomin softly got up, and, moving across the room with his large tread, he closed a window that stood open behind Nezhdanov's head. . . .
`You mustn't get cold,' he remarked naively in reply to the orator's puzzled look.
Nezhdanov began questioning him as to what socialistic ideas he was trying to introduce into the factory in his charge, and whether he ​intended to arrange for the workpeople to have a share of the profits.
'My dear soul!' answered Solomin, 'we have set up a school and a tiny hospital, and to be sure our master struggled against that like a bear!'
Once only Solomin lost his temper in earnest, and struck the table such a blow with his powerful fist that everything shook upon it, not excepting a forty-pound weight that lay near the inkstand. He had been told of some legal injustice, the oppressive treatment of a workmen's guild.. . .
When Nezhdanov and Markelov started discussing how 'to act,' how to put their plans into execution, Solomin still listened with curiosity, even with respect; but he did not himself utter a single word. This conversation lasted till four o'clock. And what, what did they not discuss? Markelov, among other things, alluded mysteriously to the indefatigable traveller Kislyakov, to his letters, which were becoming more and more interesting; he promised to show Nezhdanov some of them, and even to let him take them home, since they were very lengthy, and not written in a very legible hand; and over and above this there was a great deal of erudition in them, and there were verses too, only not frivolous ones, but of ​a socialistic tendency! From Kislyakov, Markelov passed to soldiers, adjutants, Germans; he got at last to his articles on the artillery; Nezhdanov talked of the antagonism between Heine and Borne, of Proudhon, of realism in art; while Solomin listened, listened and pondered and smoked, and, still smiling and not saying a single smart thing, he seemed to understand better than any one what lay at the root of the matter.
It struck four. . . . Nezhdanov and Markelov were almost dropping with fatigue, while Solomin had not turned a hair. The friends separated, but first it was mutually agreed to go the next day to the town to see the merchant Golushkin on propaganda business. Golushkin himself was very zealous, and moreover he promised proselytes! Solomin expressed a doubt whether it was worth while to visit Golushkin. However, he agreed later that it was worth while.