between him and the country people
there existed a gulf that could not be crossed. He once happened to
exchange a few words with the drunken Kirill, and even with Mendely the
Sulky, but besides abuse about things in general he got nothing out of
them. Another peasant, called Fituvy, completely nonplussed him.
This peasant had an unusually energetic countenance, almost like some
brigand. "Well, this one seems hopeful at any rate," Nejdanov thought.
But it turned out that Fituvy was a miserable wretch, from whom the mir
had taken away his land, because he, a strong healthy man, WOULD NOT
work. "I can't," he sobbed out, with deep inward groans, "I can't work!
Kill me or I'll lay hands on myself!" And he ended by begging alms in
the streets! With a face out of a canvas of Rinaldo Rinaldini!

As for the factory men, Nejdanov could not get hold of them at all;
these fellows were either too sharp or too gloomy. He wrote a long
letter to his friend Silin about the whole thing, in which he bitterly
regretted his incapacity, putting it down to the vile education he had
received and to his hopelessly aesthetic nature! He suddenly came to
the conclusion that his vocation in the field of propaganda lay not in
speaking, but in writing. But all the pamphlets he planned did not work
out somehow. Whatever he attempted to put down on paper, according
to him, was too drawn out, artificial in tone and style, and once or
twice--oh horror! he actually found himself wandering off into verse, or
on a sceptical, personal effusion. He even decided to speak about this
difficulty to Mariana, a very sure sign of confidence and intimacy! He
was again surprised to find her sympathetic, not towards his literary
attempts, certainly, but to the moral weakness he was suffering from, a
weakness with which she, too, was somewhat familiar. Mariana's contempt
for aestheticism was no less strong than his, but for all that the main
reason why she did not accept Markelov was because there was not the
slightest trace of the aesthetic in his nature!

She did not for a moment admit this to herself. It is often the case
that what is strongest in us remains only a half-suspected secret.

Thus the days went by slowly, with little variety, but with sufficient
interest.

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 depth