AN ANONYMOUS STORY
I
For reasons which I cannot at present specify I was compelled to take a job as footman to a St. Petersburg civil servant called George Orlov, a man of about thirty-five.
I entered Orlov's service because of his father, the well-kno^n politician, whom I considered a serious enemy to my cause. I reckoned to study the father's plans and intentions in detail while living with the son: by overhearing conversations, and by finding papers and jottings on his desk.
The electric bell usually trilled in my footman's quarters at about eleven o'clock in the morning to inform me that my master was awake. When I went into his bedroom with his clean clothes and boots, Orlov would be sitting immobile in his bed, looking not so much sleepy as exhausted by sleeping, and staring fixedly without any sign of pleasure at his awakening. I would help him to dress while he submitted to me reluctantly and silently, ignoring my existence. Then, his head wet after washing, smelling of fresh scent, he would go into the dining- room for coffee. He sat at table, drank his coffee and leafed through newspapers, while Polya the maid and I stood by the door, respectfully watching him. Two adults were compelled to pay the gravest attention to a third drinking his coffee and munching his rusks: all very absurd and barbarous, no doubt, but I found nothing degrading in having to stand by that door though I was Orlov's equal in social standing and education.
I had incipient tuberculosis and there were a few other things wrong with me: a sight wdrse, perhaps, than tuberculosis. Whether it was the effect of illness, or of some new change of outlook which eluded my notice at the time, I was obsessed day in day out by a passionate, hypersensitive craving for ordinary everyday life. I yearned for peace of mind, health, fresh air, plenty to eat. I was becoming a day-dreamer, and as such I did not know exactly what I wanted. I might feel an urge to go to a monastery and to sit day after day by the window, gazing at trees and fields. Or I would imagine myself buying a dozen acres and settling do^n as a country squire. Or else I would swear to take up academic work and make a point of becoming a professor at a provincial university. Asa retired naval lieutenant I had visions of the sea, of our squadron, of the corvette on which I had sailed round the world. I wanted to experience once again the indescribable sensation of walking in a tropical forest, or of gazing at the sunset in the Bay ofBengal, when you swoon with ecstasy and feel homesick: both at the same time. I dreamt of mountains, women, music. With childlike curiosity I scrutinized people's faces and hung on their voices. As I stood by the door watching Orlov drink his coffee, I felt less like a servant than a man for whom everything on earth, even an Orlov, held some interest.
Orlov was a typical St. Petersburger in appearance, with narrow shoulders, elongated waist, sunken temples, eyes of indeterminate hue and sparse, faintly tinted vegetation on head, chin and upper lip. His face was well-groomed, worn, disagreeable: particularly disagreeable when he was thinking or sleeping. It is hardly necessary to describe a commonplace appearance, though. Besides, St. Petersburg is not Spain, a man's looks don't mean anything there even in affairs of the heart, being of value only to imposing servants and coachmen. Ifl have mentioned Orlov's face and hair, it is only because there was one notable feature about his looks, to wit: when he picked up a newspaper or book, whatever it might be, or when he met people, whoever they might be, his eyes began to smile ironically and his whole face took on an air of gentle mockery free from malice. Before reading or hearing anything he always held this irony at the ready, as a savage holds his shield. It was an irony of habit, an irony of the old school, and it had recently been corning into his face without any effort of will, probably, but as if by reflex. More of that later, though.
At about half past twelve he would take up a brief-case stuffed with papers and drive off, with an ironical air, to work. He would have his meal out and ret^^ after eight. I would light the lamp and candles in his study, and he would sit in a low chair, stretching his legs out on to another chair, and start reading in this sprawling position. He brought new books almost every day, or had them sent from the shops, and a mass of books in three languages (not counting Russian), already read and abandoned, lay in the corners and under the bed in my quarters. He read unusually fast. 'Tell me what you read,' it is said, 'and I shall tell you who you are.' That may be true, but it is absolutely impossible to judge an Orlov by the books which he reads. It was all such a hotchpotch, what with philosophy, French novels, political economy, finance, new poets and Intermediary editions. He read it all with equal speed, and always with that same ironical look in his eyes.
After ten o'clock he would dress carefully—often in evening clothes, very rarely in his official uniform—and leave the house. He would return towards morning.
I lived there peaceably and quietly, and there were no clashes between us. As a rule he ignored my existence, and he spoke to me without that ironical look on his face—not considering me human, obviously.
Only once did I see him angry. One evening, a week after I .had entered his service, he came back from some dinner at about nine o'clock. His expression was bad-tempered and tired.
'There's a nasty smell in the flat,' he said as I followed him into the study to light the candles.
'But it's quite fresh in here, sir.'
'It stinks, I tell you,' he repeated irritably.
'I open the casement windows every day.'
'Don't you answer me back, you oaf!' he shouted.
I took umbrage, and was about to object. God knows how it would have ende(l but for the intervention of Polya, who knew her master better than I did.
'Yes, really, what a nasty smell,' she said, raising her eyebrows. 'Where can it come from? Stephen, open the casements in the drawing- room and light the fire.'
She clucked and fussed, and went through all the rooms, rustling her skirts and swishing her sprayer. But Orlov's bad mood remained. Keeping his temper with obvious effort, he sat at his desk and quickly wrote a letter. He wrote several lines, then gave an angry snort, tore up the letter and began writing again.
'To hell with them!' he muttered. 'Do they credit me with a superhuman memory?'
The letter was written at last. He got up from the desk and addressed me.
'You are to go to Znamensky Square and deliver this letter to Mrs. Zinaida Krasnovsky in person. But first ask the porter whether her husband—Mr. Krasnovsky, that is—has returned. If he has, keep the letter and come back. Hey, wait a moment! If she should ask whether I have anyone with me, tell her two gentlemen have been here since eight o'clock -writing something.'
I went to Znamensky Square. The porter told me that Mr. Krasnovsky was not yet back, and I went up to the second floor. The door was opened by a tall, fat, dark-complexioned servant with black side- whiskers. Sleepily, apathetically, churlishly, as flunkey to flunkey, he asked what I wanted. Before I had time to answer a woman in a black dress carne quickly into the hall from the drawing-room. She screwed up her eyes at me.
'Is Mrs. Krasnovsky in?' I asked.
'I am she.'
'A letter from Mr. Orlov.'
She unsealed the letter impatiently, held it in both hands, displaying her diamond rings, and began reading. I saw a white face with soft lines, a jutting chin, and long, dark lashes. She looked no more than twenty-five years old.
'Give him my regards and thank him,' she said when she had finished reading.
'Is anyone with Mr. Orlov?' she asked gently, happily, and as if ashamed to be mistrustful.
'Two gentlemen,' I answered. 'They are writing something.'
'Give him my regards and thank him,' she repeated, and went back silently, leaning her head on one side and reading the letter as she went.
I was meeting few women at the time, and this one, of whom I had only had a passing glimpse, made an impression on me. Walking home, remembering her face and delicate fragrance, I fell into a reverie. When I returned Orlov had left the house.