He as surrounded by a whole crowd of labourers, and one could see from the distance that he was trying to explain something to them as hard as he could, but suddenly threw up his arms in despair, as if it were of no use.His bailiff, a small, short-sighted young man without a trace of authority or firmness in his bearing, was walking beside him, and merely kept on repeating, "Just so, sir," to Markelov's great disgust, who had expected more independence from him.Nejdanov went up to Markelov, and on looking into his face was struck by the same expression of spiritual weariness he was himself suffering from.Soon after greeting one another, Markelov began talking again of last night's "problems" (more briefly this time), about the impending revolution, the weary expression never once leaving his face.He was smothered in perspiration and dust, his voice was hoarse, and his clothes were covered all over with bits of wood shavings and pieces of green moss.The labourers stood by silently, half afraid and half amused.Nejdanov glanced at Markelov, and Ostrodumov's remark, "What is the good of it all? All the same, it will have to be altered afterwards," flashed across his mind.
One of the men, who had been fined for some offence, began begging Markelov to let him off.The latter got angry, shouted furiously, but forgave him in the end."All the same, it will have to be altered afterwards."Nejdanov asked him for horses and a conveyance to take him home.
Markelov seemed surprised at the request, but promised to have everything ready in good time.They turned back to the house together, Markelov staggering as he walked.
"What is the matter with you? " Nejdanov asked.
"I am simply worn out!" Markelov began furiously."No matter what you do, you simply can't make these people understand anything!
They are utterly incapable of carrying out an order, and do not even understand plain Russian.If you talk of 'part', they know what that means well enough, but the word 'participation' is utterly beyond their comprehension, just as if it did not belong to the Russian language.They've taken it into their heads that Iwant to give them a part of the land!"
Markelov had tried to explain to the peasants the principles of cooperation with a view to introducing it on his estate, but they were completely opposed to it."The pit was deep enough before, but now there's no seeing the bottom of it," one of them remarked, and all the others gave forth a sympathetic sigh, quite crushing poor Markelov.He dismissed the men and went into the house to see about a conveyance and lunch.
The whole of Markelov's household consisted of a man servant, a cook, a coachman, and a very old man with hairy ears, in a long-skirted linen coat, who had once been his grandfather's valet.
This old man was for ever gazing at Markelov with a most woe-begone expression on his face.He was too old to do anything, but was always present, huddled together by the door.
After a lunch of hard-boiled eggs, anchovies, and cold hash (the man handing them pepper in an old pomade pot and vinegar in an old eau-de-cologne bottle), Nejdanov took his seat in the same carriage in which he had come the night before.This time it was harnessed to two horses, not three, as the third had been newly shod, and was a little lame.
Markelov had spoken very little during the meal, had eaten nothing whatever, and breathed with difficulty.He let fall a few bitter remarks about his farm and threw up his arms in despair.
"All the same, it will have to be altered afterwards!
Mashurina asked Nejdanov if she might come with him as far as the town, where she had a little shopping to do."I can walk back afterwards or, if need be, ask the first peasant I meet for a lift in his cart."Markelov accompanied them to the door, saying that he would soon send for Nejdanov again, and then.., then (he trembled suddenly, but pulled himself together) they would have to settle things definitely.Solomin must also come.He (Markelov) was only waiting to hear from Vassily Nikolaevitch, and that as soon as he heard from him there would be nothing to hinder them from making a "beginning," as the masses (the same masses who failed to understand the word "participation") refused to wait any longer!
"Oh, by the way, what about those letters you wanted to show me?
What is the fellow's name...Kisliakov?" Nejdanov asked.
"Later on...I will show them to you later on.We can do it all at the same time."The carriage moved.
"Hold yourself in readiness!" Markelov's voice was heard again, as he stood on the doorstep.And by his side, with the same hopeless dejection in his face, straightening his bent back, his hands clasped behind him, diffusing an odour of rye bread and mustiness, not hearing a single word that was being said around him, stood the model servant, his grandfather's decrepit old valet.
Mashurina sat smoking silently all the way, but when they reached the town gates she gave a loud sigh.
"I feel so sorry for Sergai Mihailovitch," she remarked, her face darkening.
"He is over-worked, and it seems to me his affairs are in a bad way," Nejdanov said.
"I was not thinking of that."
"What were you thinking of then?"
"He is so unhappy and so unfortunate.It would be difficult to find a better man than he is, but he never seems to get on."Nejdanov looked at her.
"Do you know anything about him?"
"Nothing whatever, but you can see for yourself.Goodbye, Alexai Dmitritch." Mashurina clambered out of the carriage.
An hour later Nejdanov was rolling up the courtyard leading to Sipiagin's house.He did not feel well after his sleepless night and the numerous discussions and explanations.
A beautiful face smiled to him out of the window.It was Madame Sipiagina welcoming him back home.
"What glorious eyes she has!" he thought.
