"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