# Virgin Soil (Garnett)/Volume 1/Chapter 12

XII
A great many people had come to dinner, and after dinner Nezhdanov profited by the general bustle to slip away to his own room. He wanted to be by himself if only to review the impressions he carried away from his expedition. At table Valentina Mihalovna had looked at him several times attentively, but apparently had not got a chance of speaking to him; Marianna, since that unexpected avowal which had so astounded him, seemed ashamed of herself and avoided him. Nezhdanov took up a pen; he felt a desire to converse on paper with his friend Silin; but he could not think what to say even to his friend; or perhaps, so many contradictory thoughts and sensations were clashing together in his head that he did not attempt to disentangle them, and put it all off to another day. Among the party at dinner had been Mr. Kallomyetsev too; never had he shown more arrogance and gentlemanly superciliousness; but his free and easy remarks had ​had no effect on Nezhdanov: he did not notice them. He seemed shut in by a sort of cloud; it stood like a veil of half-darkness between him and the rest of the world─and, strange to say across this veil he could discern only three faces, and all three women's faces, and all three had their eyes persistently fastened upon him. They were: Madame Sipyagin, Mashurina, and Marianna. What did it mean? And why precisely these three? What had they in common? And what did they want with him? He went early to bed, but could not get to sleep. He was haunted by thoughts, gloomy, though not exactly painful . . . thoughts of the inevitable end, of death. They were familiar thoughts. For long he was turning them this way and that, at one time shuddering at the probability of annihilation, then welcoming it, almost rejoicing in it He felt at last the peculiar excitement he knew so well.. . . He got up, sat down to his writing-table, and, after thinking a little, almost without correction, wrote the following verses in his secret book;
'My dear one, when I come
To die─this is my will:
Heap up and burn my writings all,
That they may die in the same hour!
With flowers then deck me all about
And let the sun shine in my room;
Musicians place about my doors,
And let them play no mournful dirge! But as in hours of revelry, Let the gay fiddles shrilly twang A rollicking, seductive waltz! Then, as upon my dying ear That reckless music dies away, I too would die, dropping asleep, And mar not with a useless moan The peace that comes with coming death. I'd pass away to other worlds, Rocked to my sleep by the light strains Of the light pleasures of our earth!'
When he wrote the words 'my dear one,' he was thinking of Silin. He declaimed his verses in an undertone to himself, and was surprised at what had come from his pen. This scepticism, this indifference, this light-minded lack of faith, how did it all agree with his principles? with what he had said at Markelov's? He flung the book in the table-drawer, and went back to his bed. But he only fell asleep at dawn when the first larks were trilling in the paling sky.
The next day he had just finished his lesson, and was sitting in the billiard-room. Madame Sipyagin came in, looked round, and, going up to him with a smile, asked him to come to her room. She was wearing a light barège dress, very simple, and very charming; the sleeves ended in a frill at the elbow; a wide ribbon clasped her waist, her hair fell in thick curls on ​her neck. Everything about her seemed overflowing with kindness and sympathetic tenderness, a restrained, emboldening tenderness─everything: the subdued brilliance of her half-closed eyes, the soft languor of her voice, her gestures, her very gait. Madame Sipyagin conducted Nezhdanov to her boudoir, a bright, charming room, filled with the scent of flowers and perfumes, the pure freshness of a woman's garments, a woman's constant presence; she made him sit down in an easy-chair, seated herself near him, and began to question him about his journey, about Markelov's doings, with such tact, such gentleness, such sweetness! She showed sincere interest in her brother, whom, till then, she had not once mentioned in Nezhdanov's hearing; from some of her words it could be gathered that the feeling Marianna had inspired in him had not escaped her; her tone was slightly mournful . . . whether because his feeling was not reciprocated by Marianna, or because her brother's choice had fallen on a girl he really knew nothing of, was left undefined. But what was principally clear: she was obviously trying to win Nezhdanov, to arouse his confidence in her, to make him cease to be shy. Valentina Mihalovna went so far as to reproach him a little for having a false idea of her.
​Nezhdanov listened to her, looked at her arms and her shoulders, at times glanced at her rosy lips, the faintly waving coils of her hair. At first his answers were very short; he felt a slight tightening in his throat and his chest . . . but gradually this sensation was replaced by another, disturbing enough too, but not devoid of a certain sweetness: he had never expected such a distinguished and beautiful lady, such an aristocrat, would be capable of taking an interest in him, a mere student; and she was not simply taking an interest in him, she seemed to be flirting a little with him. Nezhdanov asked himself why she was doing all this? and he found no answer; nor, indeed, was he very anxious to find one. Madame Sipyagin talked of Kolya; she even began by assuring Nezhdanov that it was simply with the object of talking seriously about her son, to learn his views on the education of Russian children in general, that she wished to get to know him better. The suddenness with which this wish had sprung up might have struck any one as curious. But the root of the matter did not lie in what Valentina Mihalovna had just said, but in the fact that she had been overtaken by something like a wave of sensuality; a craving to conquer, to bring to her feet this stubborn creature, had asserted itself.. . .
​But at this point we must go back a little, Valentina Mihalovna was the daughter of a very stupid and unenergetic general, with only one star and a buckle to show for fifty years' service, and a very sly and intriguing Little Russian, endowed, like many of her countrywomen, with an exceedingly simple, and even foolish, exterior, from which she knew how to extract the maximum of advantage. Valentina Mihalovna's parents were not well-to-do people; she got into the Smolny Convent, however, and there, though she was regarded as a republican, she stood high in favour because she studied industriously, and behaved sedately. On leaving the Smolny Convent, she lived with her mother (her brother had gone into the country, her father, the general with the star and the buckle, was dead) in a clean, but very chilly flat; when people talked in their rooms, the breath could be seen coming in steam from their mouths; Valentina Mihalovna used to laugh and declare it was 'like being in church.' She was plucky in bearing all the discomforts of a poor, cramped style of living: she had a wonderfully good temper. With her mother's aid, she succeeded in keeping up and forming acquaintances and connections: every one talked about her, even in the highest circles, as a very charming, very cultivated girl, of the very best ​breeding. Valentina Mihalovna had several suitors; she had picked out Sipyagin from all the rest, and had very simply, rapidly, and adroitly made him in love with her.. . . Though, indeed, he soon recognised himself that a better wife for him could not have been found. She was clever, not ill-natured . . . rather goodnatured of the two, fundamentally cold and indifferent . . . and she could not tolerate the thought of any one remaining indifferent to her. Valentina Mihalovna was full of that special charm which is peculiar to attractive egoists; in that charm there is no poetry nor true sensibility, but there is softness, there is sympathy, there is even tenderness. Only, these charming egoists must not be thwarted: they are fond of power, and will not tolerate independence in others. Women like Sipyagina excite and work upon inexperienced and passionate natures; for themselves they like regularity and a peaceful life. Virtue comes easy to them, they are inwardly unmoved, but the constant desire to sway, to attract, and to please, lends them mobility and brilliance: their will is strong, and their very fascination partly depends on this strength of will. Hard it is for a man to hold his ground when for an instant gleams of secret softness pass unconsciously, as it seems, over a bright, pure creature like this; he waits, expecting that the time is coming, and ​now the ice will melt; but the clear ice only reflects the play of the light, it does not melt, and never will he see its brightness troubled!
Flirtation cost Sipyagina little; she was well aware that there was no danger for her, and never could be. And meantime, to make another's eyes grow dim and then sparkle again, to set another's cheeks flushing with desire and dread, another's voice quivering and breaking, to trouble another soul─oh, how sweet that was to her soul! How pleasant it was late at night, as she lay down to untroubled slumbers in her pure, fresh nest, to recall those restless words and looks and sighs! With what a happy smile she retired into herself, into the consciousness of her inaccessibility, her impregnable virtue, and with what gracious condescension she submitted to the lawful embraces of her well-bred spouse! Such reflections were so soothing that she was often positively touched and ready to do some deed of mercy, to succour a fellow-creature.. . . Once she had founded a tiny alms-house after a secretary of legation, madly in love with her, had tried to cut his throat! She had prayed most sincerely for him, though the sentiment of religion had been feeble in her from her earliest years.
And so she talked to Nezhdanov, and tried in every way to bring him to her feet. She ​admitted him to her confidence, she, as it were, revealed herself to him, and with sweet curiosity, with half-maternal tenderness, watched this very nice-looking, interesting, and severe young radical slowly and awkwardly beginning to respond to her. In a day, an hour, a minute—all this would disappear, leaving no trace; but meanwhile she found it pleasant, rather amusing, rather pathetic, and even rather touching. Forgetting his origin, and knowing how such interest is appreciated by people who are lonely and among strangers, Valentina Mihalovna began questioning Nezhdanov about his youth, his family.. . . But guessing instantly by his confused and short replies that she had made a blunder, Valentina Mihalovna tried to smooth over her mistake, and opened her heart even more ingenuously to him. . . . As in the languid heat of noonday a full-blown rose opens its fragrant petals, which are soon folded up close again by the bracing coolness of night.
She did not succeed, however, in fully effacing her mistake. Nezhdanov, touched on a sore spot, could not feel confiding as before. The bitter feeling he had always with him, always rankling at the bottom of his heart, was astir again; his democratic suspicion and self-reproach were awakened. 'This wasn't what I came here for,' he thought; Paklin's ​sarcastic advice recurred to him . . . and he took advantage of the first instant of silence to get up, make a curt bow, and go out 'looking very foolish,' as he could not help whispering to himself.
His embarrassment did not escape Valentina Mihalovna . . . but to judge from the little smile with which she watched him go out, she interpreted this embarrassment in a manner flattering to herself.
In the billiard-room Nezhdanov came upon Marianna. She was standing with her back to the window, not far from the door of the boudoir, her arms folded tightly. Her face happened to be in almost black shadow; but her fearless eyes were looking so inquiringly, so fixedly at Nezhdanov, such scorn, such insulting pity were visible on her tightly closed lips, that he stood still in perplexity.. . .
`You have something to say to me?' he said involuntarily.
Marianna did not at once answer. 'No . . . or rather yes; I have. But not now.'
'When, then?'
'Wait a little. Perhaps—to-morrow; perhaps─never. You see, I know very little—of what you are really like.'
'Still,' began Nezhdanov, 'it has sometimes struck me . . . that we have———'
​'And you don't know me at all', Marianna interrupted. 'But there, wait a little. To-morrow, perhaps. Now I have to go to my mistress. Good-bye till to-morrow.'
Nezhdanov took two steps forward, but suddenly turned back. 'Oh, by the way, Marianna Vikentyevna . . . I have been continually meaning to ask you: won't you let me go to the school with you to see what you do there─before it's shut?'
'Certainly.. . . But it's not of the school that I wanted to talk to you.'
'What, then?'
'To-morrow,' repeated Marianna.
But she did not put it off till the next day; a conversation between her and Nezhdanov took place the same evening in one of the avenues of limes, not far from the terrace.