Zinaida Fyodorovna flung her napkin on the table and, with a pitiful, suffering face, quickly left the dining room. Polya, sobbing loudly and muttering something, also left. The soup and grouse got cold. And for some reason, all this restaurant luxury on the table now seemed to me paltry, thievish, like Polya. Two pirozhki on a little plate had the most pathetic and criminal look: ‘‘Today we’ll be taken back to the restaurant,’’ they seemed to be saying, ‘‘and tomorrow we’ll be served for dinner again to some official or famous diva.’’
‘‘A grand lady, just think!’’ came to my ears from Polya’s room. ‘‘If I wanted, I’d have been just as much of a lady long ago, but I have some shame! We’ll see who’ll be the first to go! Oh, yes!’’
Zinaida Fyodorovna rang the bell. She was sitting in her room, in the corner, with such an expression as if she had been put in the corner as a punishment.
‘‘Have they brought a telegram?’’ she asked.
‘‘No, ma’am.’’
‘‘Ask the porter, maybe there’s a telegram. And don’t leave home,’’ she said after me, ‘‘I’m frightened to be left alone.’’
After that I had to run downstairs to the porter almost every hour to ask whether there was a telegram. It was an eerie time, I must confess! So as not to see Polya, Zinaida Fyodorovna took dinner and tea in her room, slept there on a short couch resembling the letter E, and made her bed herself. For the first few days, it was I who took the telegrams, but, receiving no answer, she stopped trusting me and went to the telegraph office herself. Looking at her, I also waited impatiently for a telegram. I hoped he would invent some lie, for instance, arrange to have a telegram sent to her from some station. If he was too busy playing cards, I thought, or had already managed to become infatuated with another woman, then of course Gruzin and Kukushkin would remind him of us. But we waited in vain. Five times a day I went to Zinaida Fyodorovna’s room to tell her the whole truth, but she looked like a goat, her shoulders drooping and her lips moving, and I went away without saying a word. Compassion and pity robbed me of all my courage. Polya, cheerful and content, as though nothing had happened, tidied up the master’s study, the bedroom, rummaged in the cupboards and clattered the dishes, and, when going past Zinaida Fyodorovna’s door, hummed some tune and coughed. She liked being hidden from. In the evenings she went off somewhere and rang the bell at two or three in the morning, and I had to open the door for her and listen to her remarks about my coughing. There would at once be another ring, I would run to the room next to the study, and Zinaida Fyodorovna, thrusting her head out the door, would ask: ‘‘Who rang?’’ And she would look at my hands to see if there wasn’t a telegram in them.
When at last the bell rang downstairs on Saturday and a familiar voice was heard on the stairs, she was so glad that she burst into sobs; she rushed to meet him, embraced him, kissed his chest and sleeves, said something that couldn’t be understood. The porter brought in the suitcases, Polya’s cheerful voice was heard. As if somebody had come on vacation!
‘‘Why didn’t you send me any telegrams?’’ Zinaida Fyodorovna said, breathing heavily with joy. ‘‘Why? I was tormented, I barely survived this time . . . Oh, my God!’’
‘‘Very simple! The senator and I went to Moscow that first day, I never received your telegrams,’’ said Orlov. ‘‘After dinner, my heart, I’ll give you a most detailed report, but now sleep, sleep, sleep . . . I got worn out on the train.’’
It was obvious that he hadn’t slept all night: he probably played cards and drank a lot. Zinaida Fyodorovna put him to bed, and after that, we all went around on tiptoe till evening. Dinner passed quite successfully, but when they went to the study for coffee, a talk began. Zinaida Fyodorovna spoke of something quickly, in a low voice; she spoke in French, and her speech bubbled like a brook, then came a loud sigh from Orlov and the sound of his voice.
‘‘My God!’’ he said in French. ‘‘Don’t you have any fresher news than this eternal song about the villainous maid?’’
‘‘But my dear, she stole from me and said all sorts of impudent things.’’
‘‘But why doesn’t she steal from me and say impudent things? Why do I never notice maids, or caretakers, or servants? My dear, you’re simply capricious and don’t want to show character... I even suspect you’re pregnant. When I offered to dismiss her for you, you demanded that she stay, and now you want me to chase her out. But I’m also stubborn on such occasions: I answer caprice with caprice. You want her to go, well, and now I want her to stay. It’s the only way to cure you of your nerves.’’
‘‘Well, all right, all right!’’ Zinaida Fyodorovna said fearfully. ‘‘Let’s stop talking about it . . . Let’s put it off till tomorrow. Now tell me about Moscow... What’s happening in Moscow?’’
X
AFTER LUNCH THE next day—it was the seventh of January, the day of John the Baptist—Orlov put on a black tailcoat and a decoration to go to his father and wish him a happy name day. He was to go by two, but when he finished dressing, it was only half past one. How to spend this half hour? He paced about the drawing room and declaimed the congratulatory verses he used to read to his father and mother as a child. Zinaida Fyodorovna, who was about to go to the seamstress or the store, was sitting there and listening to him with a smile. I don’t know how the conversation started, but when I brought Orlov his gloves, he was standing in front of Zinaida Fyodorovna, saying to her with a capricious, pleading face:
‘‘For God’s sake, for the sake of all that’s holy, don’t talk about something that’s already known to each and every one! What is this unfortunate ability our intelligent, thinking ladies have to speak with passion and an air of profundity about something that has long since set even schoolboys’ teeth on edge? Ah, if only you could exclude all these serious questions from our marital program! What a favor it would be!’’
‘‘We women should not dare our own judgment to bear.’’18
‘‘I give you full freedom, be liberal and quote any authors you like, but make me one concession, do not discuss these two things in my presence: the perniciousness of high society and the abnormality of marriage. Understand, finally. High society is always denounced, so as to contrast it with the society in which merchants, priests, tradesmen, and muzhiks live—all sorts of Sidors and Nikitas. Both societies are loathsome to me, but if, in all conscience, I were offered the choice between the one and the other, I would choose high society without a second thought, and it would not be a lie or an affectation, because all my tastes are on its side. Our society is trite and trivial, but at least you and I speak decent French, read this and that, and don’t start poking each other in the ribs, even when we’re having a bad quarrel, while with the Sidors, the Nikitas, and their honors, it’s sure thing, right-o, a belt in the gob, and totally unbridled pot-house manners and idolatry.’’
‘‘The muzhiks and merchants feed you.’’
‘‘Yes, and what of it? That’s a poor recommendation not only for me but for them. They feed me and kowtow to me, meaning they don’t have enough intelligence and honesty to act otherwise. I’m not denouncing or praising anybody, I only want to say: high society and low—both are better. In my heart and mind, I’m against them both, but my tastes are on the side of the former. Well, ma’am, and as for the abnormalities of marriage now,’’ Orlov went on, glancing at his watch, ‘‘it’s time you understood that there are no abnormalities, but as yet there are only indefinite demands on marriage. What do you want of marriage? In lawful and unlawful cohabitation, in all unions and cohabitations, good or bad, there is one and the same essence. You ladies live only for this essence, it’s everything for you, without it your existence would have no meaning for you. You need nothing except this essence, and that’s what you take, but now that you’ve read yourselves up on novels, you’ve become ashamed of taking it, and you rush about hither and thither, recklessly changing men, and to justify this turmoil, you’ve begun to talk about the abnormalities
of marriage. Since you cannot and do not want to eliminate the essence, your chief enemy, your Satan, since you go on serving it slavishly, what serious conversation can there be? Whatever you say to me will be nonsense and affectation. I won’t believe you.’’
I went to find out from the porter whether the cab was there, and when I came back, I found them quarreling. As sailors say, the wind had picked up.
‘‘I see you want to astound me with your cynicism today,’’ Zinaida Fyodorovna was saying, pacing the drawing room in great agitation. ‘‘I find it disgusting to listen to you. I am pure before God and men and have nothing to repent of. I left my husband for you, and I’m proud of it. Proud of it, I swear to you on my honor!’’
‘‘Well, that’s splendid.’’
‘‘If you’re an honorable, decent man, you also should be proud of my act. It raises me and you above thousands of people who would like to act in the same way as I, but don’t dare to out of faintheartedness or petty calculation. But you’re not a decent man. You’re afraid of freedom and make fun of an honorable impulse for fear that some ignoramus might suspect you of being an honorable man. You’re afraid to show me to your acquaintances, there’s no higher punishment for you than to drive down the street with me . . . What? Isn’t it true? Why have you still not introduced me to your father and your cousin? Why? No, I’m tired of it, finally!’’ cried Zinaida Fyodorovna, and she stamped her foot. ‘‘I demand what belongs to me by right. Be so good as to introduce me to your father!’’
‘‘If you need him, introduce yourself to him. He receives every morning from ten to ten-thirty.’’
‘‘How base you are!’’ said Zinaida Fyodorovna, wringing her hands in despair. ‘‘Even if you’re not sincere and aren’t saying what you think, for this cruelty alone one could come to hate you! Oh, how base you are!’’
‘‘We keep circling around and can’t talk our way to the real essence. The whole essence is that you were mistaken and don’t want to admit it out loud. You imagined I was a hero and had some sort of extraordinary ideas and ideals, but it turned out in reality that I’m a most ordinary official, a cardplayer, and have no interest in any ideas. I’m the worthy offspring of that same rotten society you fled from, outraged at its triviality and triteness. Confess it and be fair: get indignant not with me but with yourself, since it was you who were mistaken, not I.’’
‘‘Yes, I confess: I was mistaken!’’
‘‘That’s splendid. We’ve talked our way to the main thing, thank God. Now listen further, if you like. I can’t raise myself up to you, because I’m too corrupt; neither can you lower yourself to me, because you’re too high. There remains, then, one thing . . .’’
‘‘What?’’ Zinaida Fyodorovna asked quickly, with bated breath and suddenly turning white as paper.
‘‘There remains the resort to the aid of logic . . .’’
‘‘Georgiy, why are you tormenting me?’’ Zinaida Fyodorovna suddenly said in Russian, with a cracked voice. ‘‘Why? Understand my suffering . . .’’
Orlov, frightened of tears, quickly went to the study and, I don’t know why—wishing to cause her some extra pain, or remembering that this was the practice in such cases— locked the door behind him with a key. She cried out and ran after him, her dress rustling.
‘‘What does this mean?’’ she asked, knocking on the door. ‘‘What . . . what does this mean?’’ she repeated in a thin voice breaking with indignation. ‘‘Ah, is that how you are? Then know that I hate and despise you! Everything’s finished between us! Everything!’’
Hysterical weeping and laughter followed. Something small fell off the table in the drawing room and broke. Orlov stole from the study to the front hall by another door and, with a cowardly glance behind him, quickly put on his overcoat and top hat and left.
Half an hour went by, then an hour, and she was still weeping. I remembered that she had no father, no mother, no family, that she was living now between a man who hated her and Polya, who stole from her—and how joyless her life appeared to me! Not knowing why myself, I went to her in the drawing room. Weak, helpless, with beautiful hair, she who seemed to me the image of tenderness and grace suffered like a sick person; she was lying on the sofa, hiding her face, and her whole body shaking.
‘‘Madam, wouldn’t you like me to go for the doctor?’’ I asked quietly.
‘‘No, no need... it’s nothing,’’ she said and looked at me with tearful eyes. ‘‘I have a slight headache... Thank you.’’
I went out. But in the evening she wrote letter after letter and sent me now to Pekarsky, now to Kukushkin, now to Gruzin, and finally wherever I liked, so long as I found Orlov quickly and gave him the letter. When I came back each time with the letter, she scolded me, pleaded with me, put money in my hand—as if in a fever. And at night she didn’t sleep but sat in the drawing room and talked to herself.
The next day Orlov came back for dinner, and they made peace.
On the first Thursday after that, Orlov complained to his friends about his unbearably hard life; he smoked a lot and said with irritation:
‘‘This isn’t life, it’s an inquisition. Tears, shouts, wise words, pleas for forgiveness, again tears and shouts, and as a result—I now have no place of my own, I’m worn out and I’ve worn her out. Can it be I’ll have to live like this for another month or two? Can it be? And yet it’s possible!’’
‘‘Why don’t you talk it over with her?’’ said Pekarsky.
‘‘I’ve tried, but I can’t. You can boldly speak any truth you like to an independent, reasoning man, but here you have to do with a being who has no will, no character, no logic. I can’t stand tears, they disarm me. When she cries, I’m ready to vow eternal love and start crying myself.’’
Pekarsky did not understand, scratched his wide brow, and said:
‘‘Really, you should rent her a separate apartment. It’s so simple!’’
‘‘She needs me, not an apartment. What’s there to talk about?’’ sighed Orlov. ‘‘All I hear is endless talk, but I don’t see any way out of my situation. Truly, I’m blamelessly to blame! I didn’t sow, but I have to reap. All my life I’ve shunned the role of hero, I never could stand Turgenev’s novels, and suddenly, as if in mockery, I’ve wound up a veritable hero. I assure her on my word of honor that I’m not a hero at all, I supply irrefutable proofs, but she doesn’t believe me. Why doesn’t she believe me? There must indeed be something heroic in my physiognomy.’’
‘‘Why don’t you go and inspect the provinces?’’ Kukushkin said with a laugh.
‘‘That’s the only thing left.’’
A week after this conversation, Orlov announced that he was being sent on business to the senator again, and in the evening of that same day he drove to Pekarsky’s with his suitcases.
XI
ON THE THRESHOLD stood an old man of about sixty, in a floor-length fur coat and a beaver hat.
‘‘Is Georgiy Ivanych at home?’’ he asked.
At first I thought he was a moneylender, one of Gruzin’s creditors, who occasionally came to Orlov for small handouts, but when he came into the front hall and opened his coat, I saw the thick eyebrows and characteristically compressed lips I had come to know so well from photographs, and two rows of stars on his uniform tailcoat. I recognized him: it was Orlov’s father, the well-known statesman.
I replied that Georgiy Ivanych was not at home. The old man pressed his lips tightly together and looked away, pondering, showing me his dry, toothless profile.
‘‘I’ll leave a note,’’ he said. ‘‘Show me in.’’
He left his galoshes in the front hall and, without taking off his long, heavy fur coat, went to the study. There he sat down in the armchair at the desk and, before taking up the pen, thought about something for three minutes or so, shielding his eyes as if from the sun—exactly as his son did when he was out of sorts. His face was sad, pensive, with an expression of that submissiveness which I had seen onl
y in the faces of old and religious people. I stood behind him, looking at his bald spot and the depression on his nape, and it was clear as day to me that this weak, ailing old man was now in my hands. For there was not a soul in the whole apartment except me and my enemy. I had only to use a little physical force, then tear off his watch so as to camouflage my purpose, and leave by the back stairs, and I would have gotten immeasurably more than I had counted on when I became a servant. I thought: I’ll hardly ever have a luckier chance. But instead of acting, I went on looking with complete indifference now at the bald spot, now at the fur, and calmly reflected on the relations between this man and his only son, and that people spoiled by wealth and power probably don’t want to die . . .
‘‘Have you worked for my son long?’’ he asked, tracing large letters on the paper.
‘‘This is the third month, Your Excellency.’’
He finished writing and stood up. I still had time. I prodded myself and clenched my teeth, trying to squeeze from my soul at least a drop of my former hatred; I remembered what a passionate, stubborn, and indefatigable enemy I had been still recently . . . But it’s hard to strike a match on a crumbling wall. The sad old face and the cold gleam of the stars called up only petty, cheap, and useless thoughts about the frailty of all earthly things, about the proximity of death...
‘‘Good-bye, brother!’’ the old man said, put his hat on, and left.
It was no longer possible to doubt it: a change had taken place in me, I had become different. To test myself, I started to remember, but at once felt eerie, as if I had accidentally glanced into a dark, damp corner. I remembered my friends and acquaintances, and my first thought was of how I would now blush and be at a loss when I met one of them. Who am I now? What am I to think about, and what am I to do? Where am I to go? What am I living for?
The Complete Short Novels Page 31