“It’s a very sad poem.... I hope you wrote it before we became intimate. The verses are good though ... as far as I can judge. I think you have the making of a literary man in you, but you have chosen a better and higher calling than literature. It was good to do that kind of work when it was impossible to do anything else.”
Nejdanov looked at her quickly.
“Do you think so? I agree with you. Better ruin there, than success here.”
Mariana stood up with difficulty.
“Yes, my dear, you are right!” she exclaimed, her whole face beaming with triumph and emotion, “you are right! But perhaps it may not mean ruin for us yet. We shall succeed, you will see; we’ll be useful, our life won’t be wasted. We’ll go among the people.... Do you know any sort of handicraft? No? Never mind, we’ll work just the same. We’ll bring them, our brothers, everything that we know.... If necessary, I can cook, wash, sew.... You’ll see, you’ll see.... And there won’t be any kind of merit in it, only happiness, happiness—”
Mariana ceased and fixed her eyes eagerly in the distance, not that which lay before her, but another distance as yet unknown to her, which she seemed to see.... She was all aglow.
Nejdanov bent down to her waist.
“Oh, Mariana!” he whispered. “I am not worthy of you!”
She trembled all over.
“It’s time to go home!” she exclaimed, “or Valentina Mihailovna will be looking for us again. However, I think she’s given me up as a bad job. I’m quite a black sheep in her eyes.”