SHE came up to him first.

“Mr. Nejdanov,” she began, “it seems that you are quite enchanted with Valentina Mihailovna.”

She turned down the avenue without waiting for a reply; he walked by her side.

“What makes you think so?”

“Is it not a fact? In that case she behaved very foolishly today. I can imagine how concerned she must have been, and how she tried to cast her wary nets!”

Nejdanov did not utter a word, but looked at his companion sideways.

“Listen,” she continued, “it’s no use pretending; I don’t like Valentina Mihailovna, and you know that well enough. I may seem unjust . . . but I want you to hear me first —”

Mariana’s voice gave way. She suddenly flushed with emotion; under emotion she always gave one the impression of being angry.

“You are no doubt asking yourself, ‘Why does this tiresome young lady tell me all this?’ just as you must have done when I spoke to you . . . about Mr. Markelov.”

She bent down, tore off a small mushroom, broke it to pieces, and threw it away.

“You are quite mistaken, Mariana Vikentievna,” Nejdanov remarked. “On the contrary, I am pleased to think that I inspire you with confidence.”

This was not true, the idea had only just occurred to him.

Mariana glanced at him for a moment. Until then she had persistently looked away from him.

“It is not that you inspire me with confidence exactly,” she went on pensively; “you are quite a stranger to me. But your position- -and mine — are very similar. We are both alike — unhappy; that is a bond between us.”

“Are you unhappy?” Nejdanov asked.

“And you, are you not?” Mariana asked in her turn. Nejdanov did not say anything.

“Do you know my story?” she asked quickly. “The story of my father’s exile? Don’t you? Well, here it is: He was arrested, tried, convicted, deprived of his rank and everything . . . and sent to Siberia, where he died. My mother died too. My uncle, Mr. Sipiagin, my mother’s brother, brought me up . . . I am dependent upon him — he is my benefactor and — Valentina Mihailovna is my benefactress. . . . I pay them back with base ingratitude because I have an unfeeling heart . . . But the bread of charity is bitter — and I can’t bear insulting condescensions — and can’t endure to be patronised. I can’t hide things, and when I’m constantly being hurt I only keep from crying out because I’m too proud to do so.”

As she uttered these disjointed sentences, Mariana walked faster and faster. Suddenly she stopped. “Do you know that my aunt, in order to get rid of me, wants to marry me to that hateful Kollomietzev? She knows my ideas . . . in her eyes I’m almost a nihilist — and he! It’s true he doesn’t care for me . . . I’m not good-looking enough, but it’s possible to sell me. That would also be considered charity.”

“Why didn’t you —” Nejdanov began, but stopped short.

Mariana looked at him for an instant.

“You wanted to ask why I didn’t accept Mr. Markelov, isn’t that so? Well, what could I do? He’s a good man, but it’s not my fault that I don’t love him.”

Mariana walked on ahead, as if she wished to save her companion the necessity of saying anything to this unexpected confession.

They both reached the end of the avenue. Mariana turned quickly down a narrow path leading into a dense fir grove; Nejdanov followed her. He was under the influence of a twofold astonishment; first, it puzzled him that this shy girl should suddenly become so open and frank with him, and secondly, that he was not in the least surprised at this frankness, that he looked upon it, in fact, as quite natural.

Mariana turned round suddenly, stopped in the middle of the path with her face about a yard from Nejdanov’s, and looked straight into his eyes.

“Alexai Dmitritch,” she said, “please don’t think my aunt is a bad woman. She is not. She is deceitful all over, she’s an actress, a poser — she wants everyone to bow down before her as a beauty and worship her as a saint! She will invent a pretty speech, say it to one person, repeat it to a second, a third, with an air as if it had only just come to her by inspiration, emphasising it by the use of her wonderful eyes! She understands herself very well — she is fully conscious of looking like a Madonna, and knows that she does not love a living soul! She pretends to be forever worrying over Kolia, when in reality does nothing but talk about him with clever people. She does not wish harm to any one . . . is all kindness, but let every bone in your body be broken before her very eyes . . . and she wouldn’t care a straw! She would not move a finger to save you, and if by any chance it should happen to be necessary or useful to her. . .then heaven have mercy on you . . . .”

Mariana ceased. Her wrath was choking her. She could not contain herself, and had resolved on giving full vent to it, but words failed her. Mariana belonged to a particular class of unfortunate beings, very plentiful in Russia, whom justice satisfies, but does not rejoice, while injustice, against which they are very sensitive, revolts them to their innermost being. All the time she was speaking, Nejdanov watched her intently. Her flushed face, her short, untidy hair, the tremulous twitching of her thin lips, struck him as menacing, significant, and beautiful. A ray of sunlight, broken by a net of branches, lay across her forehead like a patch of gold. And this tongue of fire seemed to be in keeping with the keen expression of her face, her fixed wide-open eyes, the earnest sound of her voice.

“Tell me why you think me unhappy,” Nejdanov observed at last. “Do you know anything about me?

“Yes.”

“What do you know? Has anyone been talking to you about me?

“I know about your birth.”

“Who told you?

“Why, Valentina Mihailovna, of course, whom you admire so much. She mentioned in my presence, just in passing you know, but quite intentionally, that there was a very interesting incident in your life. She was............