The Complete Short Novels

Wine made them merrier towards the end of supper, and they would go on to merry conversations. They would make fun of Gruzin’s family life, of Kukushkin’s conquests, or of Pekarsky, whose account book supposedly had a page with the heading For Works of Charity, and another For Physiological Needs. They said there were no faithful wives; there was no wife from whom, given a certain knack, one could not obtain caresses without leaving the drawing room, with the husband sitting right next door in his study. Adolescent girls are depraved and already know everything. Orlov keeps the letter of one fourteen-year-old schoolgirl; on her way home from school, she ‘‘hitched up with a little officer on Nevsky’’ who supposedly took her to his place and let her go only late at night, and she hastened to write to a friend about it in order to share her rapture. They said that there is not and never has been any purity of morals, that it is obviously not needed; mankind has so far done perfectly well without it. The harmfulness of so-called depravity is undoubtedly exaggerated. The perversity specified in our penal code did not keep Diogenes¹⁰ from being a philosopher and a teacher; Caesar and Cicero were debauchees and at the same time great men. Old Cato¹¹ married a young girl and, even so, went on being considered a strict faster and observer of morals.

At three or four o’clock, the guests would go home or drive out of town together, or to Ofitserskaya Street to visit some Varvara Osipovna, and I would go to my room in the servants’ quarters and lie awake for a long time with a headache and a cough.

IV

A BOUT THREE WEEKS after I went to work for Orlov, on a Sunday morning, as I recall, someone rang the bell. It was past ten o’clock, and Orlov was still asleep. I went to open the door. You can imagine my amazement: outside on the landing stood a lady in a veil.

‘‘Is Georgiy Ivanych up?’’ she asked.

And by her voice I knew it was Zinaida Fyodorovna, to whom I brought letters on Znamenskaya. I don’t remember whether I had time or was able to answer her—I was confused by her appearance. But she had no need of my answer. In an instant she darted past me, and, having filled the front hall with the fragrance of her perfume, which to this day I remember perfectly well, she went in, and the sound of her footsteps died away. For at least half an hour after that, nothing was heard. But then someone rang again. This time some spruced-up girl, apparently a maid from a wealthy house, and our porter, both out of breath, brought in two suitcases and a wicker trunk.

‘‘For Zinaida Fyodorovna,’’ said the girl.

And she left without saying another word. All this was mysterious and evoked a sly smile in Polya, who stood in awe of her master’s pranks. It was as if she meant to say: ‘‘See how we are!’’—and she went around all the while on tiptoe. Finally footsteps were heard; Zinaida Fyodorovna quickly came into the front hall and, seeing me in the doorway of my servants’ quarters, said:

‘‘Stepan, go and dress Georgiy Ivanych.’’

When I came into Orlov’s room with his clothes and boots, he was sitting on his bed, his feet dangling on the bearskin rug. His whole figure expressed confusion. He didn’t notice me, and my servant’s opinion didn’t interest him: obviously he was confused and abashed before himself, before his own ‘‘inner eye.’’ He dressed, washed, and then fussed silently and unhurriedly with his brushes and combs, as if giving himself time to think over and figure out his situation, and even by his back you could see that he was confused and displeased with himself.

They had coffee together. Zinaida Fyodorovna poured for herself and for Orlov, then leaned her elbows on the table and laughed.

‘‘I still can’t believe it,’’ she said. ‘‘When you travel for a long time and then arrive at a hotel, it’s hard to believe there’s no need to keep going. It’s nice to breathe easy.’’

With the expression of a little girl who wants very much to do some mischief, she breathed easy and laughed again.

‘‘Excuse me,’’ said Orlov, nodding towards the newspapers. ‘‘Reading over coffee is an invincible habit of mine. But I can do the two things at once: read and listen.’’

‘‘Read, read . . . Your habits and your freedom will remain yours. But why do you have such a lenten look? Are you always this way in the mornings, or just today? You’re not glad?’’

‘‘On the contrary. But I confess I’m a little stunned.’’

‘‘Why? You had time to prepare for my invasion. I’ve been threatening you every day.’’

‘‘Yes, but I didn’t expect you to carry out your threat precisely today.’’

‘‘I didn’t expect it myself, but it’s better so. Better, my friend. To pull the aching tooth all at once and—be done.’’

‘‘Yes, of course.’’

‘‘Ah, my dear!’’ she said, closing her eyes. ‘‘All’s well that ends well, but before it ended well, how much grief there was! Never mind that I laugh; I’m glad, happy, but I feel more like weeping than laughing. Yesterday I went through a whole battle,’’ she continued in French. ‘‘God alone knows how hard it was for me. But I’m laughing because I find it hard to believe. It seems to me that I’m sitting and having coffee with you not in reality but in a dream.’’

Then, continuing to speak in French, she told him how she broke up with her husband the day before, and her eyes now filled with tears, now laughed and looked admiringly at Orlov. She told him that her husband had long suspected her but was avoiding an explanation; they quarreled very often, and usually, at the height of a quarrel, he would suddenly fall silent and go to his study, so as not to voice his suspicions in a sudden outburst, and so that she herself would not begin to explain. Zinaida Fyodorovna felt guilty, worthless, incapable of a bold, serious step, and that made her hate herself and her husband more strongly every day and to suffer as if in hell. But yesterday, during a quarrel, when he cried out in a tearful voice: ‘‘My God, when will it all end?’’— and went to his study, she chased after him like a cat after a mouse and, keeping him from closing the door behind him, cried out that she hated him with all her soul. Then he let her into the study, and she told him everything and confessed that she loved another man, that this other man was her true, most lawful husband, and she considered it a duty of conscience to move to his place that very day, despite anything, even if she had to go through cannon fire.

‘‘There’s the strong pulse of a romantic vein in you,’’ Orlov interrupted her, not taking his eyes from the newspaper.

She laughed and went on with her story, not touching her coffee. Her cheeks were burning, this embarrassed her slightly, and she kept glancing abashedly at me and Polya. From her further account I learned that her husband had answered her with reproaches, threats, and finally with tears, and it would have been more correct to say that