A curious change was taking place in Nejdanov. He felt dissatisfied with himself, that is, with his inactivity, and his words had a constant ring of bitter self-reproach. But in the innermost depths of his being there lurked a sense of happiness very soothing to his soul. Was it a result of the peaceful country life, the summer, the fresh air, dainty food, beautiful home, or was it due to the fact that for the first time in his life he was tasting the sweetness of contact with a woman’s soul? It would be difficult to say. But he felt happy, although he complained, and quite sincerely, to his friend Silin.
The mood, however, was abruptly destroyed in a single day.
On the morning of this day Nejdanov received a letter from Vassily Nikolaevitch, instructing him, together with Markelov, to lose no time in coming to an understanding with Solomin and a certain merchant Golushkin, an Old Believer, living at S. This letter upset Nejdanov very much; it contained a note of reproach at his inactivity. The bitterness which had shown itself only in his words now rose with full force from the depths of his soul.
Kollomietzev came to dinner, disturbed and agitated. “Would you believe it!” he shouted almost in tears, “what horrors I’ve read in the papers! My friend, my beloved Michael, the Servian prince, has been assassinated by some blackguards in Belgrade. This is what these Jacobins and revolutionists will bring us to if a firm stop is not put to them all!” Sipiagin permitted himself to remark that this horrible murder was probably not the work of Jacobins, “of whom there could hardly be any in Servia,” but might have been committed by some of the followers of the Karageorgievsky party, enemies of Obrenovitch. Kollomietzev would not hear of this, and began to relate, in the same tearful voice, how the late prince had loved him and what a beautiful gun he had given him! Having spent himself somewhat and got rather irritable, he at last turned from foreign Jacobins to home-bred nihilists and socialists, and ended by flying into a passion. He seized a large roll, and breaking it in half over his soup plate, in the manner of the stylish Parisian in the “Café-Riche,” announced that he would like to tear limb from limb, reduce to ashes, all those who objected to anybody or to anything! These were his very words. “It is high time! High time!” he announced, raising the spoon to his mouth; “yes, high time!” he repeated, giving his glass to the servant, who was pouring out sherry. He spoke reverentially about the great Moscow publishers, and Ladislas, notre bon et cher Ladislas, did not leave his lips. At this point, he fixed his eyes on Nejdanov, seeming to say: “There, this is for you! Make what you like of it! I mean this for you! And there’s a lot more to come yet!” The latter, no longer able to contain himself, objected at last, and began in a slightly unsteady tone of voice (not due to fear, of course) defending the ideals, the hopes, the principles of the modern generation. Kollomietzev soon went into a squeak—his anger always expressed itself in falsetto—and became abusive. Sipiagin, with a stately air, began taking Nejdanov’s part; Valentina Mihailovna, of course, sided with her husband; Anna Zaharovna tried to distract Kolia’s attention, looking furiously at everybody; Mariana did not move, she seemed turned to stone.
Nejdanov, hearing the name of Ladislas pronounced at least for the twentieth time, suddenly flared up and thumping the palm of his hand on the table burst out:
“What an authority! As if we do not know who this Ladislas is! A born spy, nothing more!”
“W-w-w-what—what—did you say?” Kollomietzev stammered cut, choking with rage. “How dare you express yourself like that of a man who is respected by such people as Prince Blasenkramf and Prince Kovrishkin!”
Nejdanov shrugged his shoulders.
“A very nice recommendation! Prince Kovrishkin, that enthusiastic flunky—”
“Ladislas is my friend,” Kollomietzev screamed, “my comrade—and I—”