'Would you like me to fetch the doctor, ma'am?' I asked softly.
'No, there's no need, it's nothing,' she said, looking at me with tearful eyes. 'It's only a bit of a headache, thank you very much.'
I went out. In the evening she wrote one letter after another. She sent me to Pekarsky, Kukushkin and Gruzin by t^^s, and finally anywhere I liked ifl would but fmd Orlov quickly and give him her letter. Every time I returned with that letter she feverishly scolded me, pleaded with me, thrust money into my hand. She did not sleep that night, but sat in the drawing-room talking to herself
Orlov came back to lnnch next day and they were reconciled.
On the following Thursday Orlov complained to his friends that he had reached the end of his tether and that life was not worth living. He smoked a lot.
'It's no life, this isn't, it's sheer torture,' he said irritably. 'Tears, shrieks, intellectual conversation and pleas for forgiveness followed by more tears and shrieks, and the result is I can't call the place my o^n. I suffer agoiies and I make her suffer too. Must I really put up with another couple of months of this? Surely not? But I may have to.'
'Then why not speak to her?' Pekarsky asked.
' 'I have tried, but I can't. With a rational, self-sufficient person you can say anything you like with complete confidence, but here you arc dealing with a creature devoid of will-power, character and reason, aren't you? I can't stand tears, they unnerve me. Whenever she cries I'm ready to swear eternal love, and I want to cry as well.'
Not understanding, Pekarsky scratched his broad forehead thoughtfully.
'You really should take a separate flat for her,' he said. 'It's easy enough, surely.'
'It's me she needs, not a flat,' Orlov sighed. 'But what's the use of talking ? All I hear is chatter, chatter, chatter, I sec no way out. Talk about innocent victims! I didn't make this bed, yet it's me who's got to lie on it! A hero's the last thing I ever wanted to be! I could never stand Turgenev's novels, but now (and this is sheer farce) I suddenly find myselfa sort of quintessential Turgenev hero. I swear blindI'm no such thing, I adduce the most irrefutable proofs to that effect, but she won't believe me. Now, why not ? There must be something heroic about my countenance.'
'Then you had better go and inspect the provinces,' laughed Kukushkin.
'Yes, that's all I can do.'
A week after this conversation Orlov declared that he was being assigned to the Senator again, and he took his suitcases to Pekarsky's that same evening.
XI
On the threshold stood a man ofabout sixty in a beaver cap. His long fur coat reached the ground.
'Is Mr. Orlov in?' he asked.
I thought it was a money-lender at first, one of Gruzin's creditors who occasionally called on Orlov to collect small sums on account. But when the visitor came into the hall and flung open his coat, I saw the thick eyebrows and characteristic pursing of the lips which I had so thoroughly studied on photographs, and two rows of stars on the coat of a dress uniform. I recognized Orlov's father, the well-known statesman.
Mr. Orlov was out, I told him. The old man pursed his lips firmly and looked thoughtfully to one side, showing me a wasted, toothless profile.
'I'll leave a note,' he said. 'Will you show me in?'
Leaving his galoshes in the hall, he went into the study without taking off his long, heavy fur coat. He sat down in a low chair in front of the desk and pondered for several minutes before picking up a pen, shielding his eyes with his hand as ifto keep the sun off: just like his son in a bad mood. He had a sad, thoughtful look, with an air ofresignation such as I have only seen on the faces of elderly religious people. I stood behind him, contemplating the bald pate and the hollow at the back of his neck, and it was crystal clear to me that this weak, ailing, elderly man was now at my mercy. Why, there was no one in the flat apart from myselfand my enemy. I only needed to employ a little force, then snatch his watch to disguise my motive and leave by the tradesmen's exit—and I should have gained incomparably more than I could ever have banked on when I became a servant. I was never likely to get a better chance than this, I thought. But instead of doing anything about it I looked with complete detachment from his bald pate to his furs and back, quietly brooding on the relations between this man and his only son, and on the probability that persons spoilt byriches and power don't want to die.
'You there—how long have you been working for my son?' he asked, forming large letters on the paper.
'Between two and three months, sir.'
He finished writing and stood up. There was still time. I spurred myself on, clenching my fists, searching my heart for some particle at least of my former loathing. How impassioned, how stubborn, how assiduous an enemy I had so recently been, I remembered. But it is hard to strike a match on crumbling stone. The sad old face, the cold glitter of his medal stars . . . they evoked in me only trivial, cheap, futile thoughts about the transiency ofall things terrestrial and the proximity of death.
'Good-bye, my good fellow,' said the old man.
He put on his cap and left.
I had changed, I had become a new man: there could be no more doubt on that score. To test myself I began thinking of the past, but at once felt aghast as ifl had chanced to peep into some dark, dank corner. Recalling my comrades and friends, I first thought how I should blush, how put out I should be, when I met any of them. But what kind of man was I now? What should I think about? What should I do? What was my goal in life?
None of it made sense to me, and I realized only one thing clearly: I must pack my things and leave with all speed. Before the old man's visit there had still been some point in my job, but now it was just ludicrous. My tears dropped into my open suitcase. I felt unbearably sad, and yet so tremendously vital. I was ready to span all human potentialities within the compass of my brief existence. I wanted to speak, to read, to wield a mallet in some big factory, to keep watch at sea, to plough the fields. I wanted to go to the Nevsky Prospekt, to the country, out to sea: wherever my imagination reached. When Zinaida returned I rushed to open the door and took off her coat with especial tenderness, for this was the last time.
We had two other visitors that day besides the old man. In the evening, when it was quite dark, Gruzin unexpectedly arrived to fetch some papers for Orlov. He opened the desk, took the papers he wanted, rolled them up and told me to put them by his cap in the hall while he went to see Zinaida. She lay on the drawing-room sofa, hands behind her head. Five or six days had passed since Orlov had left on his 'tour of inspection', and no one knew when he would be back, but she no longer sent telegrams or expected them. She ignored Polya, who was still living with us. She just didn't care ... that was written all over her impassive, dead pale face. Now it was she who wanted to be miserable out of obstinacy, like Orlov. To spite herself and everything else on earth she lay quite still on the sofa for days on end, wishing herselfonly harm, expecting only the worst. She was probably picturing how Orlov would return, how they were bound to quarrel, how he would cool towards her and be unfaithful to her, after which they would separate, and these agonizing thoughts may have given her satisfaction. But what would she say if she suddenly discovered the real truth?
'I'm fond of you, my dear,' said Gruzin, greeting her and kissing her hand. 'You're so kind.
'Good old George has gone away,' he lied. 'He's gone away, the wicked man.'
He sat do^ with a sigh and fondly stroked her hand.
'Let me spend an hour with you, my dear,' he said. 'I don't like going home, and it's too early to go to the Birshovs'. Today's Katya Birshov's binhday. She's a very nice little girl.'