“He’s only a little tipsy. Been drinking on an empty stomach; that’s all.”
Mariana bent over Nejdanov. He was half lying on the couch, his head sunk on his breast, his eyes closed. He smelled of vodka; he was quite drunk.
“Alexai!” escaped her lips.
He raised his heavy eyelids with difficulty, and tried to smile.
“Well, Mariana!” he stammered out, “you’ve always talked of sim-plif-ication ... so here I am quite simplified. Because the people are always drunk ... and so ...”
He ceased, then muttered something indistinctly to himself, closed his eyes, and fell asleep. Pavel stretched him carefully on the couch.
“Don’t worry, Mariana Vikentievna,” he repeated. “He’ll sleep an hour or two and wake up as fresh as can be.”
Mariana wanted to ask how this had happened, but her questions would have detained Pavel and she wanted to be alone ... she did not wish Pavel to see him in this disgusting state before her. She walked away to the window while Pavel, who instantly understood her, carefully covered Nejdanov’s legs with the skirts of his coat, put a pillow under his head, and observing once again, “It’s nothing,” went out on tiptoe.
Mariana looked round. Nejdanov’s head was buried in the pillow and on his pale face there was an expression of fixed intensity as on the face of one dangerously ill.
“I wonder how it happened?” she thought.