“N-n-no,” Nejdanov said hesitatingly. The word “yes” nearly escaped his lips, but he recollected himself in time.
“Then you are going to a different place—not where I am going?”
Nejdanov pressed her hand which still lay in his own.
“It would indeed be vile to leave you without a supporter, without a protector, but I won’t do that, as bad as I may be. You shall have a protector—rest assured.”
Mariana bent down towards him and, putting her face close against his, looked anxiously into his eyes, as though trying to penetrate to his very soul.
“What is the matter, Alexai? What have you on your mind? Tell me ... you frighten me. Your words are so strange and enigmatical.... And your face! I have never seen your face like that!”
Nejdanov put her from him gently and kissed her hand tenderly. This time she made no resistance and did not laugh, but sat still looking at him anxiously.
“Don’t be alarmed, dear. There is nothing strange in it. They say Markelov was beaten by the peasants; he felt their blows—they crushed his ribs. They did not beat me, they even drank with me—drank my health—but they crushed my soul more completely than they did Markelov’s ribs. I was born out of joint, wanted to set myself right, and have made matters worse. That is what you notice in my face.”
“Alexai,” Mariana said slowly, “it would be very wrong of you not to be frank with me.”
He clenched his hands.