'Oh, all right, all right,' said Zinaida in panic. 'Let us change the subject. Let's leave it till tomorrow. Now tell me about Moscow. How was Moscow?'
X
The following day was the seventh ofJanuary (St. John the Baptist's Day) and after lunch Orlov put on his black dress-coat and decoration to go and wish his father many happy returns ofhis name-day. He had to leave at two o'clock, and it was only half past one when he had finished dressing. How should he spend the thirty minutes? He paced the drawing-room declaiming congratulatory verses which he had once recited to his father and mother as a child. Zinaida was sitting there too, being about to visit her dressmaker or go shopping, and she listened with a smile. How their conversation began I do not know, but when I took Orlov his gloves he was standing in front of Zinaida and peevishly pleading with her.
'In the name of God, in the name of all that is sacred, don't keep churning out the same old truisms. What an unfortunate faculty some clever, intellectually active ladies have for talking with an air of profundity and enthusiasm about things that have been boring even schoolboys to distraction for years! Oh, if you would but eliminate all these serious problems from our connubial programme, how grateful I should be !'
'Women may not dare hold views of their own, it seems.'
'I concede you total freedom. Be as liberal as you like, quote what authors you will, but do grant me a concession. Just don't discuss either oftwo subjects in my presence: the evils ofupper-class society and the defects ofmarriage as an institution. Now, get this into your head once and for all. The upper class is always abused in contrast with the world oftradesfolk, priests, workmen, peasants and every other sort of vulgar lout. Both classes are repugnant to me, but were I asked to make an honest choice between the two I should opt for the upper class without hesitation, and there would be nothing spurious or affected about it because my tastes are all on that side. Our world may be trivial, it may be empty, but you and I do at any rate speak decent French, we do read the occasional book, and we don't go around bashing each other in the ribs even when we are having a serious quarrel. Now, as for the hoi polloi, the riff-raff, the beard-and-caftan brigade, with them it's all "we aims to give satisfaction, 'alf a mo', gorblimey," not to mention their unbridled licentiousness, their pot-house manners and their idolatrous superstitions.'
'The peasant and tradesman do feed us.'
'So what? That reflects as much discredit on them as it docs on me. If they feed me, if they doff their caps to me, it only means they lack the wit and honesty to do otherwise. I am not blaming anyone, I am not praising anyone, all I'm saying is that where upper and lower class are concerned it's six ofone to halfa dozen ofthe other. My heart and mind are against both, but my tastes are with the former.
'Now then, with regard to marriage being an unnatural institution,' Orlov went on with a glance at his watch. 'It is high time you realized that it's not a matter ofnatural or unnatural, but ofpeople not knowing what they want out ofmarriage. What do you expect from it? Cohabitation, licit or illicit, and all manner of unions and liaisons, good and bad . . . they all boil do^ to the same basic element. You ladies live exclusively for that element, it's the very stuff oflife to you, and without it you'd find existence meaningless. Outside it you have no other needs and so you grab hold of it. But ever since you started reading serious fiction you have been ashamed of grabbing hold ofit—you dash from pillar to post, you rush headlong from man to man, and then try to justify the whole imbroglio by saying how unnatural a thing is marriage. But if you can't or won't renounce that essence, your greatest enemy and bugbear, if you mean to go on truckling to it so obsequiously, dien what serious discussion can there be? Whatever you say will only be pretentious nonsense and I shan't believe it.'
I went to ask the hall-porter whether the hired sledge had come, and on my return I found them quarrelling. There was a squall in the offing, as sailors say.
'Today you wish to shock me with your cynicism, I see,' said Zinaida, pacing the drawing-room in great agitation. 'I find your words quite disgusting. I am innocent in the eyes ofGod and man, and I have nothing to rcproach myselfwith, either. I left my husband for you, and I am proud of it. Yes, I swear: proud, on my word of honour.'
'Well, that's all right then.'
'If you have a shred of decency and honesty in you, then you too must be proud of what I have done. It lifts us both above thousands of people who would like to do the same as I, but don't dare through cowardice or meanness. But you aren't a decent person. You fear freedom, you deride an honest impulse because you arc afraid ofsome ignoramus suspecting you ofbeing honest. You're afraid to show me to your friends, and there's nothing you hate more than driving do^ the street with me—that's true, isn't it? Why have you never introduced me to your father and cousin, that's what I want to know?
'Oh, I am sick of this, I must say,' shouted Zinaida, stamping. 'I insist on having my rights, so kindly introduce me to your father.'
'Go and introduce yourself if you want, he interviews petitioners each morning from ten to ten thirty.'
'Oh, you really are foul,' said Zinaida, frantically wringing her hands. 'Even if you don't mean it, even ifyou're not saying what you think, that crueljoke alone makes you detestable. Oh, you are/ŭu/, I must say.'
'We're barking up the wrong tree, yon and I, this way we'll never get anywhere. What it comes to is this: you made a mistake and you won't admit it. You took me for a hero, you credited me with certain unusual notions and ideals, but then I turned out to be just a common- or-garden bureaucrat who plays cards and isn't the least bit keen on ideals. I am a worthy representative of that same tainted society which you have fled, outraged by its emptiness and vulgarity. Well, why not be fair and admit as much? Lavish your indignation on yourself, not me, for the mistake's yours, not mine.'
'All right, I admit it: I made a mistake.'
'Well, that's all right then. We have reached the point at last, thank God. Now, bear with me a little longer if you will be so kind. I cannot rise to your heights, being too depraved, nor can you demean yourself to my level, since you are too superior. So there's only one way out '
'What's that?' asked Zinaida quickly, holding her breath and suddenly turning white as a sheet.
'We must have recourse to logic, and '
'Why, oh why, do you torture me like this, George?' Zinaida suddenly asked in Russian, her voice breaking. 'Try to understand how much I suffer '
Dreading her tears, Orlov darted into his study and then for some reason—whether to hurt her more, or remembering that it was usual practice in such cases—locked the door behind him. She screamed and rushed after him, her dress swishing.
'What is the meaning of this?' she asked, banging the door.
'What, what does it mean?' she repeated in a shrill voice breaking with indignation. 'So that's the kind of man you are, is it ? I hate and despise you, so there! It's all over between us: all over, I tell you!'
Hysterical tears followed, mingled with laughter. Some small object fell off the drawing-room table and broke. Orlov made his way from study to hall through the other door, looked aronnd him in panic, swiftly donned his cloak and top hat, and fled.
Half an hour passed, then an hour, and she was still crying. She had no father, no mother, no relatives, I remembered, and she was living here between a man who hated her and Polya who robbed her. How wretched her life indeed was, thought I. Not knowing why I did so, I went into the drawing-room to see her. Weak, helpless, with her lovely hair—a very paragon of tenderness and elegance in my eyes— she was suffering as if she was ill. She lay on the sofa hiding her face and shuddering all over.