‘‘We women should not dare our own judgment to bear.’’18
‘‘I give you full freedom, be liberal and quote any authors you like, but make me one concession, do not discuss these two things in my presence: the perniciousness of high society and the abnormality of marriage. Understand, finally. High society is always denounced, so as to contrast it with the society in which merchants, priests, tradesmen, and muzhiks live—all sorts of Sidors and Nikitas. Both societies are loathsome to me, but if, in all conscience, I were offered the choice between the one and the other, I would choose high society without a second thought, and it would not be a lie or an affectation, because all my tastes are on its side. Our society is trite and trivial, but at least you and I speak decent French, read this and that, and don’t start poking each other in the ribs, even when we’re having a bad quarrel, while with the Sidors, the Nikitas, and their honors, it’s sure thing, right-o, a belt in the gob, and totally unbridled pot-house manners and idolatry.’’
‘‘The muzhiks and merchants feed you.’’
‘‘Yes, and what of it? That’s a poor recommendation not only for me but for them. They feed me and kowtow to me, meaning they don’t have enough intelligence and honesty to act otherwise. I’m not denouncing or praising anybody, I only want to say: high society and low—both are better. In my heart and mind, I’m against them both, but my tastes are on the side of the former. Well, ma’am, and as for the abnormalities of marriage now,’’ Orlov went on, glancing at his watch, ‘‘it’s time you understood that there are no abnormalities, but as yet there are only indefinite demands on marriage. What do you want of marriage? In lawful and unlawful cohabitation, in all unions and cohabitations, good or bad, there is one and the same essence. You ladies live only for this essence, it’s everything for you, without it your existence would have no meaning for you. You need nothing except this essence, and that’s what you take, but now that you’ve read yourselves up on novels, you’ve become ashamed of taking it, and you rush about hither and thither, recklessly changing men, and to justify this turmoil, you’ve begun to talk about the abnormalities of marriage. Since you cannot and do not want to eliminate the essence, your chief enemy, your Satan, since you go on serving it slavishly, what serious conversation can there be? Whatever you say to me will be nonsense and affectation. I won’t believe you.’’
I went to find out from the porter whether the cab was there, and when I came back, I found them quarreling. As sailors say, the wind had picked up.
‘‘I see you want to astound me with your cynicism today,’’ Zinaida Fyodorovna was saying, pacing the drawing room in great agitation. ‘‘I find it disgusting to listen to you. I am pure before God and men and have nothing to repent of. I left my husband for you, and I’m proud of it. Proud of it, I swear to you on my honor!’’
‘‘Well, that’s splendid.’’
‘‘If you’re an honorable, decent man, you also should be proud of my act. It raises me and you above thousands of people who would like to act in the same way as I, but don’t dare to out of faintheartedness or petty calculation. But you’re not a decent man. You’re afraid of freedom and make fun of an honorable impulse for fear that some ignoramus might suspect you of being an honorable man. You’re afraid to show me to your acquaintances, there’s no higher punishment for you than to drive down the street with me . . . What? Isn’t it true? Why have you still not introduced me to your father and your cousin? Why? No, I’m tired of it, finally!’’ cried Zinaida Fyodorovna, and she stamped her foot. ‘‘I demand what belongs to me by right. Be so good as to introduce me to your father!’’
‘‘If you need him, introduce yourself to him. He receives every morning from ten to ten-thirty.’’
‘‘How base you are!’’ said Zinaida Fyodorovna, wringing her hands in despair. ‘‘Even if you’re not sincere and aren’t saying what you think, for this cruelty alone one could come to hate you! Oh, how base you are!’’
‘‘We keep circling around and can’t talk our way to the real essence. The whole essence is that you were mistaken and don’t want to admit it out loud. You imagined I was a hero and had some sort of extraordinary ideas and ideals, but it turned out in reality that I’m a most ordinary official, a cardplayer, and have no interest in any ideas. I’m the worthy offspring of that same rotten society you fled from, outraged at its triviality and triteness. Confess it and be fair: get indignant not with me but with yourself, since it was you who were mistaken, not I.’’
‘‘Yes, I confess: I was mistaken!’’
‘‘That’s splendid. We’ve talked our way to the main thing, thank God. Now listen further, if you like. I can’t raise myself up to you, because I’m too corrupt; neither can you lower yourself to me, because you’re too high. There remains, then, one thing . . .’’
‘‘What?’’ Zinaida Fyodorovna asked quickly, with bated breath and suddenly turning white as paper.
‘‘There remains the resort to the aid of logic . . .’’
‘‘Georgiy, why are you tormenting me?’’ Zinaida Fyodorovna suddenly said in Russian, with a cracked voice. ‘‘Why? Understand my suffering . . .’’
Orlov, frightened of tears, quickly went to the study and, I don’t know why—wishing to cause her some extra pain, or remembering that this was the practice in such cases— locked the door behind him with a key. She cried out and ran after him, her dress rustling.
‘‘What does this mean?’’ she asked, knocking on the door. ‘‘What . . . what does this mean?’’ she repeated in a thin voice breaking with indignation. ‘‘Ah, is that how you are? Then know that I hate and despise you! Everything’s finished between us! Everything!’’
Hysterical weeping and laughter followed. Something small fell off the table in the drawing room and broke. Orlov stole from the study to the front hall by another door and, with a cowardly glance behind him, quickly put on his overcoat and top hat and left.
Half an hour went by, then an hour, and she was still weeping. I remembered that she had no father, no mother, no family, that she was living now between a man who hated her and Polya, who stole from her—and how joyless her life appeared to me! Not knowing why myself, I went to her in the drawing room. Weak, helpless, with beautiful hair, she who seemed to me the image of tenderness and grace suffered like a sick person; she was lying on the sofa, hiding her face, and her whole body shaking.
‘‘Madam, wouldn’t you like me to go for the doctor?’’ I asked quietly.
‘‘No, no need... it’s nothing,’’ she said and looked at me with tearful eyes. ‘‘I have a slight headache... Thank you.’’
I went out. But in the evening she wrote letter after letter and sent me now to Pekarsky, now to Kukushkin, now to Gruzin, and finally wherever I liked, so long as I found Orlov quickly and gave him the letter. When I came back each time with the letter, she scolded me, pleaded with me, put money in my hand—as if in a fever. And at night she didn’t sleep but sat in the drawing room and talked to herself.
