once out of the deep hole onto a high hill, so that it was possible to make out the people and even the oars. The boat went ahead about six yards and was thrown back four.
‘‘Write!’’ shouted Samoilenko. ‘‘What the deuce makes you go in such weather!’’
‘‘Yes, no one knows the real truth . . .’’ thought Laevsky, looking with anguish at the restless, dark sea.
‘‘The boat is thrown back,’’ he thought, ‘‘it makes two steps forward and one step back, but the oarsmen are stubborn, they work the oars tirelessly and do not fear the high waves. The boat goes on and on, now it can no longer be seen, and in half an hour the oarsmen will clearly see the steamer’s lights, and in an hour they’ll already be by the steamer’s ladder. So it is in life... In search of the truth, people make two steps forward and one step back. Sufferings, mistakes, and the tedium of life throw them back, but the thirst for truth and a stubborn will drive them on and on. And who knows? Maybe they’ll row their way to the real truth...’’
‘‘Good-by-y-ye!’’ shouted Samoilenko.
‘‘No sight or sound of them,’’ said the deacon. ‘‘Safe journey!’’
It began to drizzle.
1891
THE STORY OF AN UNKNOWN MAN
I
FOR REASONS OF which now is not the time to speak in detail, I had to go to work as the servant of a certain Petersburg official by the name of Orlov. He was about thirty-five years old and was called Georgiy Ivanych.
I went to work for this Orlov on account of his father, a well-known statesman whom I regarded as a serious enemy of my cause. I reckoned that, from the conversations I would hear and the papers and notes I might find on the desk while living at the son’s, I could learn the father’s plans and intentions in detail.
Ordinarily, at around eleven o’clock the electric bell rattled in my servants’ quarters, letting me know that the master had awakened. When I came to the bedroom with brushed clothing and boots, Georgiy Ivanych would be sitting motionless on the bed, not sleepy, but rather worn out from sleep, and staring at a single spot, showing no pleasure on the occasion of his awakening. I would help him to dress, and he would reluctantly submit to me, silent and not noticing my presence; then, his head wet from washing and smelling of fresh perfume, he would go to the dining room and have coffee. He would sit at the table, drink his coffee, and leaf through the newspapers, while the maid Polya and I stood deferentially by the door and watched him. Two grown-up persons had to watch with the most serious attention as a third drank coffee and nibbled rusks. This is, in all probability, ridiculous and wild, but I did not see anything humiliating to myself in having to stand by the door, though I was as noble and educated a man as Orlov himself.
At that time I had the beginnings of consumption, and along with it something else perhaps more important than consumption. I don’t know whether it was under the influence of illness or of a beginning change in worldview, which I hadn’t noticed then, but day after day I was overcome by a passionate, nagging thirst for ordinary, humdrum life. I craved inner peace, health, good air, satiety. I was becoming a dreamer and, like a dreamer, did not know what in fact I wanted. One time I wanted to go to a monastery and sit there for whole days at the window, looking out at the trees and fields; then I imagined myself buying some fifteen acres and living like a landowner; then I vowed to take up science and unfailingly become a professor at some provincial university. I’m a retired lieutenant of the navy; I daydreamed of the sea, of our squadron, of the corvette that had taken me around the world. I wanted to experience once again that inexpressible feeling when you’re strolling in a tropical forest or watching the sunset on the Bay of Bengal, swooning with rapture and at the same time longing for your motherland. I dreamed of mountains, women, music, and with curiosity, like a boy, peered into faces, listened to voices. And when I stood by the door and watched Orlov drinking coffee, I felt I was not a servant but a man to whom everything in the world was interesting, even Orlov.
Orlov had a Petersburg appearance: narrow shoulders, long waist, sunken temples, eyes of an indeterminate color, and a skimpy, drab growth of hair, beard, and mustache. His face was sleek, worn, and unpleasant. It was especially unpleasant when he was deep in thought or asleep. To describe an ordinary appearance is hardly proper; besides, Petersburg is not Spain, a man’s appearance is of no great importance here, even in amorous matters, and is needful only for impressive servants and coachmen. I began speaking of Orlov’s face and hair only because there was something worth mentioning in his appearance, namely: when Orlov took up a newspaper or book, whatever it might be, or met people, whoever they might be, his eyes began to smile ironically, and his whole face acquired an expression of light, unmalicious mockery. Before reading or listening to something, he prepared his irony each time, like a savage his shield. This was habitual irony of an old cast, and lately it had appeared on his face without any participation of his will, most likely, but as if by reflex. But of that later.
After noon, with an expression of irony, he would take his briefcase stuffed with papers and drive off to work. He would dine out and return home after eight. I would light the lamp and some candles in his study, and he would sit in an armchair, his legs stretched out on a chair, and, sprawled like that, begin to read. Almost every day he brought home new books or had them sent from the shops, and in my servants’ quarters in the corners and under my bed lay a host of books in three languages, not counting Russian, already read and discarded. He read with extraordinary speed. They say, tell me what you’ve read and I’ll tell you who you are. That may be true, but it was positively impossible to judge Orlov by the books he read. It was some sort of hodgepodge. Philosophy, French novels, political economy, finance, the new poets, publications of
After ten, he would dress carefully, often in a tailcoat, very rarely in his kammerjunker’s uniform,1 and drive off. He would return towards morning.
We lived quietly and peacefully, and there were no misunderstandings between us. Ordinarily he did not notice my presence, and when he spoke to me, there was no ironic expression on his face—evidently he did not regard me as a human being.
Only once did I see him angry. One time—this was a week after I went to work for him—he came back from some dinner at around nine o’clock, his face was capricious, weary. As I followed him into the study to light the candles there, he said to me:
‘‘It stinks of something in our rooms.’’
‘‘No, the air is clean,’’ I replied.
‘‘And I tell you it stinks,’’ he repeated irritably.
‘‘I air the rooms every day.’’
‘‘Don’t talk back, blockhead!’’ he shouted.
I was offended and was about to object, and God knows how it would have ended if Polya, who knew her master better than I, had not intervened.
