Christmas was spent drearily in vague anticipations of calamity. On New
Year's Eve Orlov unexpectedly announced at breakfast that he was being
sent to assist a senator who was on a revising commission in a certain
province.
"I don't want to go, but I can't find an excuse to get off," he said
with vexation. "I must go; there's nothing for it."
Such news instantly made Zinaida Fyodorovna's eyes look red. "Is it for
long?" she asked.
"Five days or so."
"I am glad, really, you are going," she said after a moment's thought.
"It will be a change for you. You will fall in love with some one on the
way, and tell me about it afterwards."
At every opportunity she tried to make Orlov feel that she did not
restrict his liberty in any way, and that he could do exactly as he
liked, and this artless, transparent strategy deceived no one, and only
unnecessarily reminded Orlov that he was not free.
"I am going this evening," he said, and began reading the paper.
Zinaida Fyodorovna wanted to see him off at the station, but he
dissuaded her, saying that he was not going to America, and not going to
be away five years, but only five days--possibly less.
The parting took place between seven and eight. He put one arm round
her, and kissed her on the lips and on the forehead.
"Be a good girl, and don't be depressed while I am away," he said in a
warm, affectionate tone which touched even me. "God keep you!"
She looked greedily into his face, to stamp his dear features on her
memory, then she put her arms gracefully round his neck and laid her
head on his breast.
"Forgive me our misunderstandings," she said in French. "Husband and
wife cannot help quarrelling if they love each other, and I love you
madly. Don't forget me.... Wire to me often and fully."
Orlov kissed her once more, and, without saying a word, went out in
confusion. When he heard the click of the lock as the door closed, he
stood still in the middle of the staircase in hesitation and glanced
upwards. It seemed to me that if a sound had reached him at that moment
from above, he would have turned back. But all was quiet. He
straightened his coat and went downstairs irresolutely.
The sledges had been waiting a long while at the door. Orlov got into
one, I got into the other with two portmanteaus. It was a hard frost and
there were fires smoking at the cross-roads. The cold wind nipped my
face and hands, and took my breath away as we drove rapidly along; and,
closing my eyes, I thought what a splendid woman she was. How she loved
him! Even useless rubbish is collected in the courtyards nowadays and
used for some purpose, even broken glass is considered a useful
commodity, but something so precious, so rare, as the love of a refined,
young, intelligent, and good woman is utterly thrown away and wasted.
One of the early sociologists regarded every evil passion as a force
which might by judicious management be turned to good, while among us
even a fine, noble passion springs up and dies away in impotence, turned
to no account, misunderstood or vulgarised. Why is it?
The sledges stopped unexpectedly. I opened my eyes and I saw that we had
come to a standstill in Sergievsky Street, near a big house where
Pekarsky lived. Orlov got out of the sledge and vanished into the entry.
Five minutes later Pekarsky's footman came out, bareheaded, and, angry
with the frost, shouted to me:
"Are you deaf? Pay the cabmen and go upstairs. You are wanted!"
At a complete loss, I went to the first storey. I had been to Pekarsky's
flat before--that is, I had stood in the hall and looked into the
drawing-room, and, after the damp, gloomy street, it always struck me by
the brilliance of its picture-frames, its bronzes and expensive
furniture. To-day in the midst of this splendour I saw Gruzin,
Kukushkin, and, after a minute, Orlov.
"Look here, Stepan," he said, coming up to me. "I shall be staying here
till Friday or Saturday. If any letters or telegrams come, you must
bring them here every day. At home, of course you will say that I have
gone, and send my greetings. Now you can go."
When I reached home Zinaida Fyodorovna was lying on the sofa in the
drawing-room, eating a pear. There was only one candle burning in the
candelabra.
"Did you catch the train?" asked Zinaida Fyodorovna.
"Yes, madam. His honour sends his greetings."
I went into my room and I, too, lay down. I had nothing to do, and I did
not want to read. I was not surprised and I was not indignant. I only
racked my brains to think why this deception was necessary. It is only
boys in their teens who deceive their mistresses like that. How was it
that a man who had thought and read so much could not imagine anything
more sensible? I must confess I had by no means a poor opinion of his
intelligence. I believe if he had had to deceive his minister or any
other influential person he would have put a great deal of skill and
energy into doing so; but to deceive a woman, the first idea that
occurred to him was evidently good enough. If it succeeded--well and
good; if it did not, there would be no harm done--he could tell some
other lie just as quickly and simply, with no mental effort.
At midnight when the people on the floor overhead were moving their
chairs and shouting hurrah to welcome the New Year, Zinaida Fyodorovna
rang for me from the room next to the study. Languid from lying down so
long, she was sitting at the table, writing something on a scrap of
paper.
"I must send a telegram," she said, with a smile. "Go to the station as
quick as you can and ask them to send it after him."
Going out into the street, I read on the scrap of paper:
"May the New Year bring new happiness. Make haste and telegraph; I miss
you dreadfully. It seems an eternity. I am only sorry I can't send a
thousand kisses and my very heart by telegraph. Enjoy yourself, my
darling.--ZINA."