"She wrote to Markelov about it," Nejdanov remarked.

"Did she?"

Mariana was silent for a while. She blushed all over, not from shame, but from another, deeper feeling.

"She is a wicked, spiteful woman!" she said slowly and quietly. "She had no right to do such a thing! But it doesn't matter. Now tell me your news."

Nejdanov began talking and Mariana listened to him with a sort of stony attention, only stopping him when she thought he was hurrying over things, not giving her sufficient details. However, not all the details of his visit were of equal interest to her; she laughed over Fomishka and Fimishka, but they did not interest her. Their life was too remote from hers.

"It's just like hearing about Nebuchadnezzar," she remarked.

But she was very keen to know what Markelov had said, what Golushkin had thought (though she soon realised what sort of a bird he was), and above all wanted to know Solomin's opinion and what sort of a man he was.

These were the things that interested her. "But when? when?" was a question constantly in her mind and on her lips the whole time Nejdanov was talking, while he, on the other hand, seemed to try and avoid everything that might give a definite answer to that question. He began to notice himself that he laid special stress on those details that were of least interest to Mariana. He pulled himself up, but returned to them again involuntarily. Humorous descriptions made her impatient, a sceptic or dejected tone hurt her. It was necessary to keep strictly to everything concerning the "cause," and however much he said on the subject did not seem to weary her. It brought back to Nejdanov's mind how once, before he had entered the university, when he was staying with some friends of his in the country one summer, he had undertaken to tell the children some stories; they had also paid no attention to descriptions, personal expressions, personal sensations, they had also demanded nothing but facts and figures. Mariana was not a child, but she was like a child in the directness and simplicity of her feelings.

Nejdanov was sincerely enthusiastic in his praise of Markelov, and expressed himself with particular warmth about Solomin. While uttering the most enthusiastic expressions about him, he kept asking himself continually why he had such a high opinion of this man. He had not said anything very brilliant and, in fact, some of his words were in direct opposition to his (Nejdanov's) own convictions. "His head is screwed on the right way," he thought. "A cool, steady man, as Fimishka said; a powerful man, of calm, firm strength. He knows what he wants, has confidence in himself, and arouses confidence in others. He has no anxieties and is well-balanced! That is the main thing; he has balance, just what is lacking in me!" Nejdanov ceased speaking and became lost in meditation. Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Alexai! What is the matter with you?" Mariana asked.

He took her tiny, strong hand from his shoulder and kissed it for the first time. Mariana laughed softly, surprised that such a thing should have occurred to him. She in her turn became pensive.

"Did Markelov show you Valentina Mihailovna's letter?" she asked at last.

"Yes, he did."

"Well, and how is he?"

"Markelov? He is the most honourable, most unselfish man in existence!

He--"

Nejdanov wanted to tell Mariana about the portrait, but pulled himself up and added, "He is the soul of honour!"

"Oh yes, I know."

Mariana became pensive again. She suddenly turned to Nejdanov on the trunk they were both sitting on and asked quickly:

"Well? What have you decided on?"

Nejdanov shrugged his shoulders.

"I've already told you, dear, that we've decided nothing as yet; we must wait a little longer."

"But why?"

"Those were our last instructions." ("I'm lying," Nejdanov thought to himself.)

"From whom?"

"Why, you know... from Va.s.sily Nikolaevitch. And then we must wait until Ostrodumov comes back."

Mariana looked questioningly at Nejdanov. "But tell me, have you ever seen this Va.s.sily Nikolaevitch?

"Yes. I've seen him twice... for a minute or two.''

"What is he like? Is he an extraordinary man?"

"I don't quite know how to tell you. He is our leader now and directs everything. We couldn't get on without discipline in our movement; we must obey someone." ("What nonsense I'm talking!" Nejdanov thought.)

"What is he like to look at?

"Oh, he's short, thick-set, dark, with high cheek-bones like a Kalmick... a rather coa.r.s.e face, only he has very bright, intelligent eyes."

"And what does he talk like?"

"He does not talk, he commands."

"Why did they make him leader?"

"He is a man of strong character. Won't give in to anyone. Would sooner kill if necessary. People are afraid of him."

"And what is Solomin like?" Mariana asked after a pause.

"Solomin is also not good-looking, but has a nice, simple, honest face.

Such faces are to be found among schoolboys of the right sort."

Nejdanov had described Solomin accurately.

Mariana gazed at him for a long, long time, then said, as if to herself:

"You have also a nice face. I think it would be easy to get on with you."

Nejdanov was touched; he took her hand again and raised it to his lips.

"No more gallantries!" she said laughing. Mariana always laughed when her hand was kissed. "I've done something very naughty and must ask you to forgive me."

"What have you done?"

"Well, when you were away, I went into your room and saw a copy-book of verses lying on your table" (Nejdanov shuddered; he remembered having left it there), "and I must confess to you that I couldn't overcome my curiosity and read the contents. Are they your verses?"

"Yes, they are. And do you know, Mariana, that one of the strongest proofs that I care for you and have the fullest confidence in you is that I am hardly angry at what you have done?"

"Hardly! Then you are just a tiny bit. I'm so glad you call me Mariana.

I can't call you Nejdanov, so I shall call you Alexai. There is a poem which begins, 'When I die, dear friend, remember,' is that also yours?"

"Yes. Only please don't talk about this any more...Don't torture me."

Mariana shook her head.

"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."