someone on the way and tell me afterwards.’’
She tried at every opportunity to give Orlov to understand that she was not hampering him in the least and that he could dispose of himself in any way he liked, and this simple, transparent policy deceived no one and only reminded Orlov once again that he was not free.
‘‘I’ll leave tonight,’’ he said and began reading the newspapers.
Zinaida Fyodorovna was going to accompany him to the train, but he talked her out of it, saying that he was not going to America, and it was not for five years but only five days or even less.
The leave-taking took place after seven o’clock. He embraced her with one arm and kissed her forehead and lips.
‘‘Be a good girl, and don’t mope without me,’’ he said in a tender, heartfelt tone, which moved me, too. ‘‘May the Creator protect you.’’
She peered greedily into his face, so that his dear features would be firmly engraved in her memory, then gracefully put her arms around his neck and laid her head on his chest.
‘‘Forgive me our misunderstandings,’’ she said in French. ‘‘A husband and wife can’t help quarreling if they love each other, and I love you madly. Don’t forget . . . Send me lots of telegrams full of details.’’
Orlov kissed her once more and, without saying a word, left in confusion. When the lock clicked behind the door, he stopped hesitantly in the middle of the stairs and looked up. It seemed to me that if a single sound had come from upstairs at that moment, he would have gone back. But it was quiet. He straightened his overcoat and began irresolutely to go down.
The cabs had been waiting by the front porch for a long time. Orlov got into one, and I with two suitcases got into the other. It was freezing cold, and bonfires sent up smoke at the intersections. The chill wind from fast driving nipped my face and hands, my breath was taken away, and closing my eyes, I thought: What a magnificent woman she is! How she loves! Nowadays people even collect useless things in courtyards and sell them for charitable purposes, even broken glass is considered good wares, but such a precious, such a rare thing as the love of a graceful, young, intelligent, and decent woman goes completely for naught. One oldtime sociologist looked upon every bad passion as a force which, given the knowhow, could be turned to the good, but with us, even a noble, beautiful passion is born and then dies, powerless, not turned anywhere, misunderstood or trivialized. Why is that?
The cabs stopped unexpectedly. I opened my eyes and saw that we were standing on Sergievskaya Street, by the big house where Pekarsky lived. Orlov got out of the sledge and disappeared through the doorway. About five minutes later, Pekarsky’s servant appeared in the doorway without his hat and shouted to me, angry at the cold.
‘‘Are you deaf or what? Dismiss the cabs and go upstairs. You’re being called!’’
Understanding nothing, I went up to the second floor. I had been at Pekarsky’s apartment before; that is, I had stood in the front hall and looked into the drawing room, and each time, after the wet, gloomy street, the gleaming of its picture frames, bronze, and costly furniture had struck me. Now, amidst this gleaming, I saw Gruzin, Kukushkin, and a little later, Orlov.
‘‘It’s like this, Stepan,’’ he said, coming up to me. ‘‘I’ll be living here till Friday or Saturday. If there are any letters or telegrams, bring them here each day. At home, of course, you’ll say I left and asked you to convey my greetings. Go with God.’’
When I returned home, Zinaida Fyodorovna was lying on the sofa in the drawing room and eating a pear. Only one candle was burning, stuck in a candelabra.
‘‘You weren’t late for the train?’’ asked Zinaida Fyodorovna.
‘‘Not at all. The master sends his greetings.’’
I went to my room in the servants’ quarters and also lay down. There was nothing to do, and I didn’t want to read. I was not surprised or indignant but simply strained my mind to understand why this deception was necessary. Only adolescents deceive their mistresses that way. Could it be that he, a man who had read and reflected so much, was unable to think up anything more intelligent? I confess, I did not have a bad opinion of his mind. I thought that if he had found it necessary to deceive his minister or some other powerful person, he would have put a lot of energy and art into it, while here, to deceive a woman, he obviously seized upon the first thing that came into his head; if the deception works—good; if not—it was no great disaster, he could lie as simply and quickly a second time without racking his brain.
At midnight, when they began moving chairs and shouting ‘‘Hurrah!’’ on the floor above us, celebrating the New Year, Zinaida Fyodorovna rang for me from the room next to the study. Sluggish from lying down for so long, she sat at the table writing something on a scrap of paper.
‘‘I must send a telegram,’’ she said and smiled. ‘‘Drive to the station quickly and ask them to send it after him.’’
Going outside then, I read on the scrap: ‘‘Happy New Year, and best wishes. Wire soon, miss you terribly. A whole eternity has gone by. Pity I can’t wire you a thousand kisses and my heart itself. Be cheerful, my joy. Zina.’’
I sent the telegram and gave her the receipt the next morning.
IX
WORST OF ALL was that Orlov unthinkingly initiated Polya into the secret of his deception as well, telling her to bring his shirts to Sergievskaya. After that she looked at Zinaida Fyodorovna with gloating and with a hatred that I found unfathomable, and never stopped snorting with satisfaction in her room and in the front hall.
‘‘She’s overstayed her time here, enough’s enough!’’ she said with delight. ‘‘She ought to understand it herself . . .’’
She could already smell that Zinaida Fyodorovna would not be with us much longer, and so as not to miss the moment, she pilfered whatever caught her eye—flacons, tortoiseshell pins, kerchiefs, shoes. On the second day of the new year, Zinaida Fyodorovna summoned me to her room and told me in a low voice that her black dress had disappeared. And afterwards she walked through all the rooms, pale, with a frightened and indignant face, talking to herself:
‘‘How about that? No, how about that? What unheard-of boldness!’’
At dinner she wanted to ladle soup for herself, but she couldn’t—her hands were trembling. Her lips were
