Orlov, turning to the fire and throwing his cigarette into it, ‘‘but even so, you oughtn’t to get excited. Generally, I must confess, I didn’t expect that my small household would cause you so many serious cares and worries. A gold piece disappeared—well, God be with it, take a hundred of mine, but to change the order, to bring in a new maid from outside, wait till she gets used to it here—it’s all long, boring, and not in my character. True, our present maid is fat and maybe has a weakness for gloves and handkerchiefs, but to make up for it, she’s quite decent, disciplined, and doesn’t squeal when Kukushkin pinches her.’’
‘‘In short, you can’t part with her . . . Just say so.’’
‘‘Are you jealous?’’
‘‘Yes, I’m jealous!’’ Zinaida Fyodorovna said resolutely.
‘‘Thanks.’’
‘‘Yes, I’m jealous!’’ she repeated, and tears glistened in her eyes. ‘‘No, it’s not jealousy but something worse . . . I have a hard time naming it.’’ She put her hands to her temples and went on impulsively: ‘‘You men are sometimes so vile! It’s terrible!’’
‘‘I see nothing terrible here.’’
‘‘I haven’t seen it, I don’t know, but they say still in childhood you men begin with maids and then out of habit don’t feel any disgust at it. I don’t know, I don’t know, but I’ve even read . . . Georges, you’re right, of course,’’ she said, going up to Orlov and changing her tone to a tender and pleading one, ‘‘in fact, I am out of sorts today. But understand that I can’t be otherwise. I find her repugnant, and I’m afraid of her. It’s painful for me to see her.’’
‘‘Is it really impossible to rise above this pettiness?’’ said Orlov, shrugging his shoulders in perplexity and stepping away from the fireplace. ‘‘Nothing could be simpler: don’t pay attention to her, and she won’t be repugnant, and there will be no need for you to make a whole drama out of a trifle.’’
I left the study and do not know what reply Orlov received. Be that as it may, Polya stayed with us. After that, Zinaida Fyodorovna would not address her for anything and obviously tried to do without her services; whenever Polya handed her something, or even merely passed by, jingling her bracelet and rustling her skirts, she shuddered.
I think that if Gruzin or Pekarsky had asked Orlov to dismiss Polya, he would have done it without the slightest hesitation, not troubling himself with any explanations; he was tractable, like all indifferent people. But in his relations with Zinaida Fyodorovna, for some reason, he showed a stubbornness, even in petty things, which at times went as far as tyranny. I just knew that if Zinaida Fyodorovna liked something, he was bound not to like it. When she came back from shopping and hastened to boast to him of her new purchases, he would glance fleetingly at them and say coldly that the more superfluous things there were in the apartment, the less air there was. It would happen that, having already put on his tailcoat to go out somewhere and having already taken leave of Zinaida Fyodorovna, he would suddenly stay home out of stubbornness. It seemed to me then that he was staying home only to feel miserable.
‘‘Why did you stay?’’ Zinaida Fyodorovna would say with affected vexation and at the same time beaming with pleasure. ‘‘Why? You’re used to spending your evenings out, and I don’t want you to change your habits for my sake. Go, please, if you don’t want me to feel guilty.’’
‘‘Is anyone blaming you?’’ Orlov would say.
With a victimized look, he would sprawl on the armchair in his study and, shielding his eyes with his hand, pick up a book. But the book would soon drop from his hands, he would turn heavily on the chair and again shield his eyes as if from the sun. Now he was vexed that he had not gone out.
‘‘May I come in?’’ Zinaida Fyodorovna would say, hesitantly coming into the study. ‘‘You’re reading? And I got bored and came for one little minute . . . to have a look.’’
I remember on one of those evenings she came in that way, hesitantly and inopportunely, and lowered herself onto the rug by Orlov’s feet, and by her timid, soft movements, it was clear that she did not understand his mood and was afraid.
‘‘And you keep reading . . .’’ she began ingratiatingly, evidently wishing to flatter him. ‘‘Do you know, Georges, what is another secret of your success? You’re very educated and intelligent. What book have you got there?’’
Orlov told her. Several minutes of silence passed, which seemed very long to me. I stood in the drawing room, observing them both from there and afraid I might start coughing.
‘‘I wanted to say something to you . . .’’ Zinaida Fyodorovna said quietly and laughed. ‘‘Shall I tell you? Perhaps you’ll start laughing and call it self-delusion. You see, I’d like terribly, terribly much to think that you stayed home tonight for my sake...to spend the evening together. Yes? May I think so?’’
‘‘Please do,’’ said Orlov, shielding his eyes. ‘‘The truly happy man is the one who thinks not only about what is but even about what is not.’’
‘‘You said something long, and I didn’t quite understand it. That is, you want to say that happy people live by imagination? Yes, that’s true. I like to sit in your study in the evening and be carried far, far away in my thoughts... It’s sometimes nice to dream. Let’s dream aloud, Georges!’’
‘‘I never went to a girls’ institute, I never learned that science.’’
‘‘Are you out of sorts?’’ Zinaida Fyodorovna asked, taking Orlov by the hand. ‘‘Why, tell me? I’m afraid when you’re like this. I can’t tell whether you’ve got a headache or are angry with me . . .’’
Several more long minutes passed in silence.
‘‘Why have you changed?’’ she said softly. ‘‘Why are you no longer cheerful and tender as you were on Znamenskaya? I’ve lived with you for almost a month, but it seems to me we haven’t begun to live yet and have never once talked properly. You answer me each time with little jokes, or else cold and long, like a teacher. And there’s something cold in your jokes . . . Why have you stopped talking seriously with me?’’
‘‘I always talk seriously.’’
‘‘Well, let’s talk, then. For God’s sake, Georges... let’s talk.’’
‘‘Yes, let’s. But about what?’’
‘‘Let’s talk about our life, about the future . . .’’ Zinaida Fyodorovna said dreamily. ‘‘I keep making plans for life,
