“In the first place,” he began angrily, “I don’t agree with you about these letters—I find them extremely interesting ... and conscientious! In the second place, Kisliakov works very hard and, what is more, he is in earnest; he believes in our cause, believes in the revolution! And I must say that you, Alexai Dmitritch, are very luke-warm—you don’t believe in our cause!”
“What makes you think so?” Nejdanov asked slowly.
“It is easy to see from your very words, from your whole behaviour. Today, for instance, at Golushkin’s, who said that he failed to see any elements that we could rely on? You! Who demanded to have them pointed out to him? You again! And when that friend of yours, that grinning buffoon, Mr. Paklin, stood up and declared with his eyes raised to heaven that not one of us was capable of self-sacrifice, who approved of it and nodded to him encouragingly? Wasn’t it you? Say what you like of yourself ... think what you like of yourself, you know best ... that is your affair, but I know people who could give up everything that is beautiful in life—even love itself—to serve their convictions, to be true to them! Well, you ... couldn’t have done that, today at any rate!”
“Today? Why not today in particular?”
“Oh, don’t pretend, for heaven’s sake, you happy Don Juan, you myrtle-crowned lover!” Markelov shouted, quite forgetting the coachman, who, though he did not turn round on the box, must have heard every word. It is true the coachman was at that moment more occupied with the road than with what the gentlemen were saying behind him. He loosened the shaft-horse carefully, though somewhat nervously, she shook her head, backed a little, and went down a slope which had no business there at all.
“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand you,” Nejdanov observed.
Markelov gave a forced, malicious laugh.
“So you don’t understand me! ha, ha, ha! I know everything, my dear sir! I know whom you made love to yesterday, whom you’ve completely conquered with your good looks and honeyed words! I know who lets you into her room ... after ten o’clock at night!”
“Sir!” the coachman exclaimed suddenly, turning to Markelov, “hold the reins, please. I’ll get down and have a look. I think we’ve gone off the track. There seems a sort of ravine here.”
The carriage was, in fact, standing almost on one side. Markelov seized the reins which the coachman handed to him and continued just as loudly: