I
THROUGH causes which it is not the time to go into in detail, I had to
enter the service of a Petersburg official called Orlov, in the capacity
of a footman. He was about five and thirty, and was called Georgy*
Ivanitch.
*Both _g's_ hard, as in "Gorgon"; _e_ like _ai_ in _rain_.
I entered this Orlov's service on account of his father, a prominent
political man, whom I looked upon as a serious enemy of my cause. I
reckoned that, living with the son, I should--from the conversations I
should hear, and from the letters and papers I should find on the
table--learn every detail of the father's plans and intentions.
As a rule at eleven o'clock in the morning the electric bell rang in my
footman's quarters to let me know that my master was awake. When I went
into the bedroom with his polished shoes and brushed clothes, Georgy
Ivanitch would be sitting in his bed with a face that looked, not
drowsy, but rather exhausted by sleep, and he would gaze off in one
direction without any sign of satisfaction at having waked. I helped him
to dress, and he let me do it with an air of reluctance without speaking
or noticing my presence; then with his head wet with washing, smelling
of fresh scent, he used to go into the dining-room to drink his coffee.
He used to sit at the table, sipping his coffee and glancing through the
newspapers, while the maid Polya and I stood respectfully at the door
gazing at him. Two grown-up persons had to stand watching with the
gravest attention a third drinking coffee and munching rusks. It was
probably ludicrous and grotesque, but I saw nothing humiliating in
having to stand near the door, though I was quite as well born and well
educated as Orlov himself.
I was in the first stage of consumption, and was suffering from
something else, possibly even more serious than consumption. I don't
know whether it was the effect of my illness or of an incipient change
in my philosophy of life of which I was not conscious at the time, but I
was, day by day, more possessed by a passionate, irritating longing for
ordinary everyday life. I yearned for mental tranquillity, health, fresh
air, good food. I was becoming a dreamer, and, like a dreamer, I did not
know exactly what I wanted. Sometimes I felt inclined to go into a
monastery, to sit there for days together by the window and gaze at the
trees and the fields; sometimes I fancied I would buy fifteen acres of
land and settle down as a country gentleman; sometimes I inwardly vowed
to take up science and become a professor at some provincial university.
I was a retired navy lieutenant; I dreamed of the sea, of our squadron,
and of the corvette in which I had made the cruise round the world. I
longed to experience again the indescribable feeling when, walking in
the tropical forest or looking at the sunset in the Bay of Bengal, one
is thrilled with ecstasy and at the same time homesick. I dreamed of
mountains, women, music, and, with the curiosity of a child, I looked
into people's faces, listened to their voices. And when I stood at the
door and watched Orlov sipping his coffee, I felt not a footman, but a
man interested in everything in the world, even in Orlov.
In appearance Orlov was a typical Petersburger, with narrow shoulders, a
long waist, sunken temples, eyes of an indefinite colour, and scanty,
dingy-coloured hair, beard and moustaches. His face had a stale,
unpleasant look, though it was studiously cared for. It was particularly
unpleasant when he was asleep or lost in thought. It is not worth while
describing a quite ordinary appearance; besides, Petersburg is not
Spain, and a man's appearance is not of much consequence even in love
affairs, and is only of value to a handsome footman or coachman. I have
spoken of Orlov's face and hair only because there was something in his
appearance worth mentioning. When Orlov took a newspaper or book,
whatever it might be, or met people, whoever they be, an ironical smile
began to come into his eyes, and his whole countenance assumed an
expression of light mockery in which there was no malice. Before reading
or hearing anything he always had his irony in readiness, as a savage
has his shield. It was an habitual irony, like some old liquor brewed
years ago, and now it came into his face probably without any
participation of his will, as it were by reflex action. But of that
later.
Soon after midday he took his portfolio, full of papers, and drove to
his office. He dined away from home and returned after eight o'clock. I
used to light the lamp and candles in his study, and he would sit down
in a low chair with his legs stretched out on another chair, and,
reclining in that position, would begin reading. Almost every day he
brought in new books with him or received parcels of them from the
shops, and there were heaps of books in three languages, to say nothing
of Russian, which he had read and thrown away, in the corners of my room
and under my bed. He read with extraordinary rapidity. They say: "Tell
me what you read, and I'll tell you who you are." That may be true, but
it was absolutely impossible to judge of Orlov by what he read. It was a
regular hotchpotch. Philosophy, French novels, political economy,
finance, new poets, and publications of the firm _Posrednik_*--and he
read it all with the same rapidity and with the same ironical expression
in his eyes.
* I.e., Tchertkov and others, publishers of Tolstoy, who issued good
literature for peasants' reading.
After ten o'clock he carefully dressed, often in evening dress, very
rarely in his _kammer-junker_'s uniform, and went out, returning in the
morning.
Our relations were quiet and peaceful, and we never had any
misunderstanding. As a rule he did not notice my presence, and when he
talked to me there was no expression of irony on his face--he evidently
did not look upon me as a human being.
I only once saw him angry. One day--it was a week after I had entered
his service--he came back from some dinner at nine o'clock; his face
looked ill-humoured and exhausted. When I followed him into his study to
light the candles, he said to me:
"There's a nasty smell in the flat."
"No, the air is fresh," I answered.
"I tell you, there's a bad smell," he answered irritably.
"I open the movable panes every day."
"Don't argue, blockhead!" he shouted.
I was offended, and was on the point of answering, and goodness knows
how it would have ended if Polya, who knew her master better than I did,
had not intervened.
"There really is a disagreeable smell," she said, raising her eyebrows.
"What can it be from? Stepan, open the pane in the drawing-room, and
light the fire."
With much bustle and many exclamations, she went through all the rooms,
rustling her skirts and squeezing the sprayer with a hissing sound. And
Orlov was still out of humour; he was obviously restraining himself not
to vent his ill-temper aloud. He was sitting at the table and rapidly
writing a letter. After writing a few lines he snorted angrily and tore
it up, then he began writing again.
"Damn them all!" he muttered. "They expect me to have an abnormal
memory!"
At last the letter was written; he got up from the table and said,
turning to me:
"Go to Znamensky Street and deliver this letter to Zinaida Fyodorovna
Krasnovsky in person. But first ask the porter whether her husband
--that is, Mr. Krasnovsky--has returned yet. If he has returned, don't
deliver the letter, but come back. Wait a minute!... If she asks whether
I have any one here, tell her that there have been two gentlemen here
since eight o'clock, writing something."
I drove to Znamensky Street. The porter told me that Mr. Krasnovsky had
not yet come in, and I made my way up to the third storey. The door was
opened by a tall, stout, drab-coloured flunkey with black whiskers, who
in a sleepy, churlish, and apathetic voice, such as only flunkeys use in
addressing other flunkeys, asked me what I wanted. Before I had time to
answer, a lady dressed in black came hurriedly into the hall. She
screwed up her eyes and looked at me.
"Is Zinaida Fyodorovna at home?" I asked.
"That is me," said the lady.
"A letter from Georgy Ivanitch."
She tore the letter open impatiently, and holding it in both hands, so
that I saw her sparkling diamond rings, she began reading. I made out a
pale face with soft lines, a prominent chin, and long dark lashes. From
her appearance I should not have judged the lady to be more than five
and twenty.
"Give him my thanks and my greetings," she said when she had finished
the letter. "Is there any one with Georgy Ivanitch?" she asked softly,
joyfully, and as though ashamed of her mistrust.
"Two gentlemen," I answered. "They're writing something."
"Give him my greetings and thanks," she repeated, bending her head
sideways, and, reading the letter as she walked, she went noiselessly
out. I saw few women at that time, and this lady of whom I had a passing
glimpse made an impression on me. As I walked home I recalled her face
and the delicate fragrance about her, and fell to dreaming. By the time
I got home Orlov had gone out.