I keep making them—and I feel so good! I’ll begin with a question, Georges: when will you leave your service?’’
‘‘Why would I do that?’’ asked Orlov, taking his hand away from his forehead.
‘‘You can’t be in the service with your views. You’re out of place there.’’
‘‘My views?’’ asked Orlov. ‘‘My views? By conviction and by nature, I’m an ordinary official, a Shchedrin hero. You take me for someone else, I daresay.’’
‘‘You’re joking again, Georges!’’
‘‘Not in the least. The service doesn’t satisfy me, maybe, but still it’s better for me than anything else. I’m used to it, the people there are the same as I am; I’m not superfluous there, in any case, and feel tolerably well.’’
‘‘You hate the service, and it sickens you.’’
‘‘Does it? If I hand in my resignation, start dreaming aloud, and fly off to another world, do you think that world will be less hateful to me than the service?’’
‘‘You’re even ready to slander yourself in order to contradict me.’’ Zinaida Fyodorovna was hurt and got up. ‘‘I’m sorry I started this conversation.’’
‘‘Why are you angry? I’m not angry that you are not in the service. Each of us lives as he likes.’’
‘‘But do you really live as you like? Are you really free? Spending your whole life writing papers that are contrary to your convictions,’’ Zinaida Fyodorovna went on, clasping her hands in despair, ‘‘obeying, wishing your superiors a happy New Year, then cards, cards, cards, and, above all, serving an order that cannot be sympathetic to you—no, Georges, no! Don’t joke so crudely. This is terrible. You’re a man of ideas and should serve only your idea.’’
‘‘Truly, you take me for someone else,’’ Orlov sighed.
‘‘Tell me simply that you don’t want to talk with me. I’m repulsive to you, that’s all,’’ Zinaida Fyodorovna said through her tears.
‘‘Here’s what, my sweet,’’ Orlov said admonishingly, sitting up in his chair. ‘‘You yourself kindly observed that I am an intelligent and educated man, and to instruct the instructed only does harm. I’m well acquainted with all the ideas, great and small, that you have in mind when you call me a man of ideas. Which means that if I prefer the service and cards to those ideas, I probably have reasons for doing so. That’s one thing. Second, as far as I know, you have never served, and your judgment of government service can only be drawn from anecdotes and bad novels. Therefore it will do us no harm to agree once and for all not to talk about what has long been known to us, or about what does not fall within the circle of our competence.’’
‘‘Why do you speak to me like that?’’ Zinaida Fyodorovna said, stepping back as if in horror. ‘‘Why? Come to your senses, Georges, for God’s sake!’’
Her voice trembled and broke off; she apparently wanted to hold back her tears, but suddenly burst into sobs.
‘‘Georges, my dear, I’m perishing!’’ she said in French, quickly sinking down before Orlov and resting her head on his knees. ‘‘I’m tormented, weary, I can’t stand it anymore, I can’t... In my childhood, a hateful, depraved stepmother, then my husband, and now you . . . you . . . You respond to my mad love with irony and coldness . . . And this dreadful, insolent maid!’’ she went on, sobbing. ‘‘Yes, yes, I see: I’m not a wife to you, not a friend, but a woman you do not respect because she has become your mistress . . . I’ll kill myself !’’
I did not expect these words and this weeping to make such a strong impression on Orlov. He blushed, shifted restlessly in his chair, and in place of irony a dull, boyish fear showed on his face.
‘‘My dear, you haven’t understood me, I swear to you,’’ he murmured in perplexity, touching her on the hair and shoulders. ‘‘Forgive me, I beg you. I was wrong and... I hate myself.’’
‘‘I offend you with my complaints and whining . . . You’re an honest, magnanimous... rare person, I’m aware of that every moment, but all these days I’ve suffered anguish . . .’’
Zinaida Fyodorovna impulsively embraced Orlov and kissed his cheek.
‘‘Only don’t cry, please,’’ he said.
‘‘No, no . . . I’ve cried my fill, and I feel better.’’
‘‘As for the maid, tomorrow she will not be here,’’ he said, still shifting restlessly in his chair.
‘‘No, she must stay, Georges! Do you hear? I’m no longer afraid of her . . . One must be above such pettiness and not think stupid things. You’re right! You’re a rare . . . an extraordinary person!’’
She soon stopped crying. With still-undried tears on her lashes, sitting on Orlov’s knees, in a low voice she told him something touching, like her memories of childhood and youth, and stroked his face with her hand, kissed and studied attentively his hands with their rings and the seals on his watch chain. She got carried away by her story, and by the nearness of the person she loved, and, probably because her recent tears had purified and refreshed her soul, her voice sounded remarkably pure and sincere. And Orlov played with her chestnut hair and kissed her hands, touching them noiselessly with his lips.
Then they had tea in the study, and Zinaida Fyodorovna read some letters aloud. They went to bed past midnight.
That night I had a bad pain in my side, and right up till morning was unable to get warm and fall asleep. I heard Orlov go from the bedroom to his study. After sitting there for about an hour, he rang. Pain and fatigue made me forget all social rules and decencies, and I went to the study barefoot and in nothing but my underwear. Orlov, in his dressing gown and nightcap, was standing in the doorway waiting for me.
‘‘You should arrive dressed when you’re rung for,’’ he said sternly. ‘‘Bring more candles.’’
I was about to apologize but suddenly had a bad fit of coughing and held on to the door frame with one hand so as not to fall.
‘‘Are you ill, sir?’’ asked Orlov.
I think that, in all the time of our acquaintance, this was the first time he had addressed me like that. God knows why. Probably, in my underwear and with my face distorted by coughing, I played my part badly and hardly
