VI

Zinaida Fyodorovna had lost her gold watch, a present from her father.

This loss surprised and alarmed her. She spent half a day going through

the rooms, looking helplessly on all the tables and on all the windows.

But the watch had disappeared completely.

Only three days afterwards Zinaida Fyodorovna, on coming in, left her

purse in the hall. Luckily for me, on that occasion it was not I but

Polya who helped her off with her coat. When the purse was missed, it

could not be found in the hall.

"Strange," said Zinaida Fyodorovna in bewilderment. "I distinctly

remember taking it out of my pocket to pay the cabman ... and then I put

it here near the looking-glass. It's very odd!"

I had not stolen it, but I felt as though I had stolen it and had been

caught in the theft. Tears actually came into my eyes. When they were

seated at dinner, Zinaida Fyodorovna said to Orlov in French:

"There seem to be spirits in the flat. I lost my purse in the hall

to-day, and now, lo and behold, it is on my table. But it's not quite a

disinterested trick of the spirits. They took out a gold coin and twenty

roubles in notes."

"You are always losing something; first it's your watch and then it's

your money ..." said Orlov. "Why is it nothing of the sort ever happens

to me?"

A minute later Zinaida Fyodorovna had forgotten the trick played by the

spirits, and was telling with a laugh how the week before she had

ordered some notepaper and had forgotten to give her new address, and

the shop had sent the paper to her old home at her husband's, who had to

pay twelve roubles for it. And suddenly she turned her eyes on Polya and

looked at her intently. She blushed as she did so, and was so confused

that she began talking of something else.

When I took in the coffee to the study, Orlov was standing with his back

to the fire and she was sitting in an arm-chair facing him.

"I am not in a bad temper at all," she was saying in French. "But I have

been putting things together, and now I see it clearly. I can give you

the day and the hour when she stole my watch. And the purse? There can

be no doubt about it. Oh!" she laughed as she took the coffee from me.

"Now I understand why I am always losing my handkerchiefs and gloves.

Whatever you say, I shall dismiss the magpie to-morrow and send Stepan

for my Sofya. She is not a thief and has not got such a repulsive

appearance."

"You are out of humour. To-morrow you will feel differently, and will

realise that you can't discharge people simply because you suspect

them."

"It's not suspicion; it's certainty," said Zinaida Fyodorovna. "So long

as I suspected that unhappy-faced, poor-looking valet of yours, I said

nothing. It's too bad of you not to believe me, _George_."

"If we think differently about anything, it doesn't follow that I don't

believe you. You may be right," said Orlov, turning round and flinging

his cigarette-end into the fire, "but there is no need to be excited

about it, anyway. In fact, I must say, I never expected my humble

establishment would cause you so much serious worry and agitation.

You've lost a gold coin: never mind--you may have a hundred of mine; but

to change my habits, to pick up a new housemaid, to wait till she is

used to the place--all that's a tedious, tiring business and does not

suit me. Our present maid certainly is fat, and has, perhaps, a weakness

for gloves and handkerchiefs, but she is perfectly well behaved, well

trained, and does not shriek when Kukushkin pinches her."

"You mean that you can't part with her?... Why don't you say so?"

"Are you jealous?"

"Yes, I am," said Zinaida Fyodorovna, decidedly.

"Thank you."

"Yes, I am jealous," she repeated, and tears glistened in her eyes. "No,

it's something worse ... which I find it difficult to find a name for."

She pressed her hands on her temples, and went on impulsively. "You men

are so disgusting! It's horrible!"

"I see nothing horrible about it."

"I've not seen it; I don't know; but they say that you men begin with

housemaids as boys, and get so used to it that you feel no repugnance. I

don't know, I don't know, but I have actually read.... _George_, of

course you are right," she said, going up to Orlov and changing to a

caressing and imploring tone. "I really am out of humour to-day. But,

you must understand, I can't help it. She disgusts me and I am afraid of

her. It makes me miserable to see her."

"Surely you can rise above such paltriness?" said Orlov, shrugging his

shoulders in perplexity, and walking away from the fire. "Nothing could

be simpler: take no notice of her, and then she won't disgust you, and

you won't need to make a regular tragedy out of a trifle."

I went out of the study, and I don't know what answer Orlov received.

Whatever it was, Polya remained. After that Zinaida Fyodorovna never

applied to her for anything, and evidently tried to dispense with her

services. When Polya handed her anything or even passed by her, jingling

her bangle and rustling her skirts, she shuddered.

I believe that if Gruzin or Pekarsky had asked Orlov to dismiss Polya he

would have done so without the slightest hesitation, without troubling

about any explanations. He was easily persuaded, like all indifferent

people. But in his relations with Zinaida Fyodorovna he displayed for

some reason, even in trifles, an obstinacy which sometimes was almost

irrational. I knew beforehand that if Zinaida Fyodorovna liked anything,

it would be certain not to please Orlov. When on coming in from shopping

she made haste to show him with pride some new purchase, he would glance

at it and say coldly that the more unnecessary objects they had in the

flat, the less airy it would be. It sometimes happened that after

putting on his dress clothes to go out somewhere, and after saying

good-bye to Zinaida Fyodorovna, he would suddenly change his mind and

remain at home from sheer perversity. I used to think that he remained

at home then simply in order to feel injured.

"Why are you staying?" said Zinaida Fyodorovna, with a show of vexation,

though at the same time she was radiant with delight. "Why do you? You

are not accustomed to spending your evenings at home, and I don't want

you to alter your habits on my account. Do go out as usual, if you don't

want me to feel guilty."

"No one is blaming you," said Orlov.

With the air of a victim he stretched himself in his easy-chair in the

study, and shading his eyes with his hand, took up a book. But soon the

book dropped from his hand, he turned heavily in his chair, and again

screened his eyes as though from the sun. Now he felt annoyed that he

had not gone out.

"May I come in?" Zinaida Fyodorovna would say, coming irresolutely into

the study. "Are you reading? I felt dull by myself, and have come just

for a minute ... to have a peep at you."

I remember one evening she went in like that, irresolutely and

inappropriately, and sank on the rug at Orlov's feet, and from her soft,

timid movements one could see that she did not understand his mood and

was afraid.

"You are always reading ..." she said cajolingly, evidently wishing to

flatter him. "Do you know, _George_, what is one of the secrets of your

success? You are very clever and well-read. What book have you there?"

Orlov answered. A silence followed for some minutes which seemed to me

very long. I was standing in the drawing-room, from which I could watch

them, and was afraid of coughing.

"There is something I wanted to tell you," said Zinaida Fyodorovna, and

she laughed; "shall I? Very likely you'll laugh and say that I flatter

myself. You know I want, I want horribly to believe that you are staying

at home to-night for my sake ... that we might spend the evening

together. Yes? May I think so?"

"Do," he said, screening his eyes. "The really happy man is he who

thinks not only of what is, but of what is not."

"That was a long sentence which I did not quite understand. You mean

happy people live in their imagination. Yes, that's true. I love to sit

in your study in the evening and let my thoughts carry me far, far

away.... It's pleasant sometimes to dream. Let us dream aloud,

_George_."

"I've never been at a girls' boarding-school; I never learnt the art."

"You are out of humour?" said Zinaida Fyodorovna, taking Orlov's hand.

"Tell me why. When you are like that, I'm afraid. I don't know whether

your head aches or whether you are angry with me...."

Again there was a silence lasting several long minutes.

"Why have you changed?" she said softly. "Why are you never so tender or

so gay as you used to be at Znamensky Street? I've been with you almost

a month, but it seems to me as though we had not yet begun to live, and

have not yet talked of anything as we ought to. You always answer me

with jokes or else with a long cold lecture like a teacher. And there is

something cold in your jokes.... Why have you given up talking to me

seriously?"

"I always talk seriously."

"Well, then, let us talk. For God's sake, _George_.... Shall we?"

"Certainly, but about what?"

"Let us talk of our life, of our future," said Zinaida Fyodorovna

dreamily. "I keep making plans for our life, plans and plans--and I

enjoy doing it so! _George_, I'll begin with the question, when are you

going to give up your post?"

"What for?" asked Orlov, taking his hand from his forehead.

"With your views you cannot remain in the service. You are out of place

there."

"My views?" Orlov repeated. "My views? In conviction and temperament I

am an ordinary official, one of Shtchedrin's heroes. You take me for

something different, I venture to assure you."

"Joking again, _George_!"

"Not in the least. The service does not satisfy me, perhaps; but,

anyway, it is better for me than anything else. I am used to it, and in

it I meet men of my own sort; I am in my place there and find it

tolerable."

"You hate the service and it revolts you."

"Indeed? If I resign my post, take to dreaming aloud and letting myself

be carried away into another world, do you suppose that that world would

be less hateful to me than the service?"

"You are ready to libel yourself in order to contradict me." Zinaida

Fyodorovna was offended and got up. "I am sorry I began this talk."

"Why are you angry? I am not angry with you for not being an official.

Every one lives as he likes best."

"Why, do you live as you like best? Are you free? To spend your life

writing documents that are opposed to your own ideas," Zinaida

Fyodorovna went on, clasping her hands in despair: "to submit to

authority, congratulate your superiors at the New Year, and then cards

and nothing but cards: worst of all, to be working for a system which

must be distasteful to you--no, _George_, no! You should not make such

horrid jokes. It's dreadful. You are a man of ideas, and you ought to be

working for your ideas and nothing else."

"You really take me for quite a different person from what I am," sighed

Orlov.

"Say simply that you don't want to talk to me. You dislike me, that's

all," said Zinaida Fyodorovna through her tears.

"Look here, my dear," said Orlov admonishingly, sitting up in his chair.

"You were pleased to observe yourself that I am a clever, well-read man,

and to teach one who knows does nothing but harm. I know very well all

the ideas, great and small, which you mean when you call me a man of

ideas. So if I prefer the service and cards to those ideas, you may be

sure I have good grounds for it. That's one thing. Secondly, you have,

so far as I know, never been in the service, and can only have drawn

your ideas of Government service from anecdotes and indifferent novels.

So it would not be amiss for us to make a compact, once for all, not to

talk of things we know already or of things about which we are not

competent to speak."

"Why do you speak to me like that?" said Zinaida Fyodorovna, stepping

back as though in horror. "What for? _George_, for God's sake, think

what you are saying!"

Her voice quivered and broke; she was evidently trying to restrain her

tears, but she suddenly broke into sobs.

"_George_, my darling, I am perishing!" she said in French, dropping

down before Orlov, and laying her head on his knees. "I am miserable, I

am exhausted. I can't bear it, I can't bear it.... In my childhood my

hateful, depraved stepmother, then my husband, now you ... you!... You

meet my mad love with coldness and irony.... And that horrible, insolent

servant," she went on, sobbing. "Yes, yes, I see: I am not your wife nor

your friend, but a woman you don't respect because she has become your

mistress.... I shall kill myself!"

I had not expected that her words and her tears would make such an

impression on Orlov. He flushed, moved uneasily in his chair, and

instead of irony, his face wore a look of stupid, schoolboyish dismay.

"My darling, you misunderstood me," he muttered helplessly, touching her

hair and her shoulders. "Forgive me, I entreat you. I was unjust and I

hate myself."

"I insult you with my whining and complaints. You are a true, generous

... rare man--I am conscious of it every minute; but I've been horribly

depressed for the last few days ..."

Zinaida Fyodorovna impulsively embraced Orlov and kissed him on the

cheek.

"Only please don't cry," he said.

"No, no.... I've had my cry, and now I am better."

"As for the servant, she shall be gone to-morrow," he said, still moving

uneasily in his chair.

"No, she must stay, _George!_ Do you hear? I am not afraid of her

now.... One must rise above trifles and not imagine silly things. You

are right! You are a wonderful, rare person!"

She soon left off crying. With tears glistening on her eyelashes,

sitting on Orlov's knee, she told him in a low voice something touching,

something like a reminiscence of childhood and youth. She stroked his

face, kissed him, and carefully examined his hands with the rings on

them and the charms on his watch-chain. She was carried away by what she

was saying, and by being near the man she loved, and probably because

her tears had cleared and refreshed her soul, there was a note of

wonderful candour and sincerity in her voice. And Orlov played with her

chestnut hair and kissed her hands, noiselessly pressing them to his

lips.

Then they had tea in the study, and Zinaida Fyodorovna read aloud some

letters. Soon after midnight they went to bed. I had a fearful pain in

my side that night, and I could not get warm or go to sleep till

morning. I could hear Orlov go from the bedroom into his study. After

sitting there about an hour, he rang the bell. In my pain and exhaustion

I forgot all the rules and conventions, and went to his study in my

night attire, barefooted. Orlov, in his dressing-gown and cap, was

standing in the doorway, waiting for me.

"When you are sent for you should come dressed," he said sternly. "Bring

some fresh candles."

I was about to apologise, but suddenly broke into a violent cough, and

clutched at the side of the door to save myself from falling.

"Are you ill?" said Orlov.

I believe it was the first time of our acquaintance that he addressed me

not in the singular--goodness knows why. Most likely, in my night

clothes and with my face distorted by coughing, I played my part poorly,

and was very little like a flunkey.

"If you are ill, why do you take a place?" he said.

"That I may not die of starvation," I answered.

"How disgusting it all is, really!" he said softly, going up to his

table.

While hurriedly getting into my coat, I put up and lighted fresh

candles. He was sitting at the table, with feet stretched out on a low

chair, cutting a book.

I left him deeply engrossed, and the book did not drop out of his hands

as it had done in the evening.