“I scarcely said a word the whole time,” Nejdanov observed. “It was she who did the talking.”
Mariana walked on in silence. A turn in the path brought them to the end of the grove in front of which lay a small lawn; a weeping silver birch stood in the middle, its hollow trunk encircled by a round seat. Mariana sat down on this seat and Nejdanov seated himself at her side. The long hanging branches covered with tiny green leaves were waving gently over their heads. Around them masses of lily-of-the-valley could be seen peeping out from amidst the fine grass. The whole place was filled with a sweet scent, refreshing after the very heavy resinous smell of the pine trees.
“So you want to see the school,” Mariana began; “I must warn you that you will not find it very exciting. You have heard that our principal master is the deacon. He is not a bad fellow, but you can’t imagine what nonsense he talks to the children. There is a certain boy among them, called Garacy, an orphan of nine years old, and, would you believe it, he learns better than any of the others!”
With the change of conversation, Mariana herself seemed to change. She turned paler, became more composed, and her face assumed an expression of embarrassment, as if she were repenting of her outburst. She evidently wished to lead Nejdanov into discussing some “question” or other about the school, the peasants, anything, so as not to continue in the former strain. But he was far from “questions” at this moment.
“Mariana Vikentievna,” he began; “to be quite frank with you, I little expected all that has happened between us.” (At the word “happened” she drew herself up.) “It seems to me that we have suddenly become very ... very intimate. That is as it should be. We have for some time past been getting closer to one another, only we have not expressed it in words. And so I will also speak to you frankly. It is no doubt wretched for you here, but surely your uncle, although he is limited, seems a kind man, as far as one can judge. Doesn’t he understand your position and take your part?”
“My uncle, in the first place, is not a man, he’s an official, a senator, or a minister, I forget which; and in the second, I don’t want to complain and speak badly of people for nothing. It is not at all hard for me here, that is, nobody interferes with me; my aunt’s petty pin-pricks are in reality nothing to me.... I am quite free.”
Nejdanov looked at her in amazement.
“In that case ... everything that you have just told me—”
“You may laugh at me if you like,” she said. “If I am unhappy—it is not as a result of my own sorrows. It sometimes seems to me that I suffer for the miserable, poor and oppressed in the whole of Russia.... No, it’s not exactly that. I suffer—I am indignant for them, I rebel for them.... I am ready to go to the stake for them. I am unhappy because I am a ‘young lady,’ a parasite, that I am completely unable to do anything ... anything! When my father was sent to Siberia and I remained with my mother in Moscow, how I longed to go to him! It was not that I loved or respected him very much, but I wanted to know, to see with my own eyes, how the exiled and banished live.... How I loathed myself and all these placid, rich, well-fed people! And afterwards, when he returned home, broken in body and soul, and began humbly busying himself, trying to work ... oh ... how terrible it was! It was a good thing that he died ... and my poor mother too. But, unfortunately, I was left behind.... What for? Only to feel that I have a bad nature, that I am ungrateful, that there is no peace for me, that I can do nothing—nothing for anything or anybody!”
Mariana turned away—her hand slid on to the seat. Nejdanov felt sorry for her; he touched the drooping hand. Mariana pulled it away quickly; not that Nejdanov’s action seemed unsuitable to her, but that he should on no account think that she was asking for sympathy.