Chapter 2 "Anonymous Story"

"Anonymous Story" one For various reasons which I cannot describe in detail at present, I was obliged to work as a servant in the house of a civil servant named Orlov in Petersburg.He was about thirty-five years old, and his name was Geordy Ivanitch. It was actually because of his father that I went to this Orlov's house as a servant. His father was a prominent government official, and I considered him the arch enemy of my cause.I counted upon staying with his son to learn in detail his father's plans and intentions, from the conversations I overheard, and from the papers and notes I found on my desk.

As usual, around eleven o'clock in the morning, the electric bell in my downstairs room rang to let me know that the master had woken up.When I came into the bedroom with my brushed clothes and polished boots, Geordy Ivanitch would always sit on the bed, motionless, not looking sleepy, but looking As if tired after sleeping, he stared blankly at a place, not at all happy because he woke up.I just helped him get dressed, and he was not willing to let me manipulate him, didn't say a word, and didn't feel that I was standing in front of him at all.Then, after a wash, he went into the dining room with his hair wet and smelling of fresh perfume, to drink his coffee.He sat down at the dining table and drank coffee while flipping through the newspaper. My maid, Polya, and I stood respectfully by the door, watching him.One was drinking coffee and nibbling on rusks alone, while two adults had to watch him with the most serious attention.Such a thing must be absurd, but I don't see any shame in having to stand by the door, although I'm of the same noble family as Orlov, and I'm just as educated. .

At that time I had just begun to suffer from consumption, and perhaps a more serious disease besides it.I do not know whether it was the effect of the illness, or a preliminary change in my outlook on the world that I had not noticed at the time, but a fervent and irritating desire grew within me every day for an ordinary bourgeois life. All I want is peace of mind, good health, good air, and enough food and clothing.I became a dreamer, and like a dreamer, I didn't know what I needed.Sometimes I want to go to a monastery, where I spend my days sitting in a small window looking out at the trees and the fields; sometimes I dream of buying five dessias of land and becoming a landowner; , To study science, you must go to a university in the mainland to be a professor.I was a retired lieutenant in our fleet.I have often missed the sea, our squadron, and the corvette in which I sailed around the world.I wanted to experience again that indescribable feeling of nostalgia for one's homeland when one walks in a tropical forest or watches a sunset over the Bay of Bengal.I dream of mountains, women, music, and I look at people's faces and listen to people's voices with the curiosity of a child.Whenever I stood by the door and watched Orlov drinking coffee, I felt that I was not a page but someone who was interested in everything in the world, even Orlov.

Orlov had the usual features of Petersburgers: narrow shoulders, long waist, sunken temples, eyes of indistinct color, thinning hair, beard, and mustache.His face, though well maintained, was languid and unattractive.It was an especially ugly face when he was meditating or sleeping.I am afraid that such an ordinary appearance need not be described, and besides, Petersburg is not like Spain, and the appearance of men here does not have much significance even in the field of love, except for dignified footmen and coachmen.I only mention Orlov's face and hair because there is something about his appearance worth mentioning, that is, whenever he picks up a newspaper or a book, whatever it is, or whenever he picks up a newspaper or a book, or No matter who he met, there was always a mocking smile in his eyes, and a slight, harmless mockery in his whole face.Before he read a paper or listened to a speech, he prepared his sneer every time, as a savage prepares his shield.It was a long-acquired, habitual expression, and it probably appeared on his face lately, almost without his own will, like a reflex.But more on that later.

After twelve o'clock, he picked up his leather bag full of documents with a mocking look, and went to work.He didn't eat lunch at home and didn't come back until after eight o'clock.I lighted the lamp and candles in the study, and he sat down in the armchair, stretched his legs out on a chair, sat down like that, and began to read.Almost every day he came back with a new book, or else it was brought to him by the bookstore.In the corner of my servant's room and under my bed are piles of books that he had read and discarded, among which there are three foreign languages ​​besides the Russian ones.He reads very fast.As the saying goes: Just tell me what you read, and I can tell who you are.

This may be true, but it is impossible to judge Orlov's character by the books he has read.The books he read were a mishmash.Philosophy, French novels, political economy, finance, the poetry of the new poets, and the publications of the "Media" publishing house--he read all books very quickly, and he read them very well. There was a mocking look in his eyes. After ten o'clock he dressed carefully, often in a frock-coat, and rarely in his uniform of a junior page, and went out.He didn't come back until the next morning. I live peacefully and peacefully with him, and we have never had any misunderstandings.As usual, he ignored me as a person, and when he spoke to me, there was no mocking look on his face, obviously he didn't take me as a person.

I only saw him angry once.One day, about nine o'clock, after I had been working at his house for a week, he came back from dinner looking unhappy and tired.I followed him into the study to light a candle for him, when he said to me: "Our room smells bad." "No, the air is pretty clean," I replied. "I told you it stinks," he repeated angrily. "I open the small ventilation window every day." "No argument, fool!" he cried. I was angry and was about to contradict him, God only knows how it would have ended if Polya, who knew the master better than I, hadn't spoken up.

"Wow, what a smell!" she said, raising her eyebrows. "Where does this smell come from? Stepan, open the little ventilation window in the drawing-room, and light the fireplace." She yelled, yelled, bustled from room to room, rustling her skirts and hissing the nozzle.Orlov was still in a bad mood, obviously restraining himself from losing his temper.He sat down at the table and wrote a quick letter.He wrote a few lines, snorted angrily, tore up the paper, and started over again. "Damn it!" he muttered. "They expect me to have an amazing memory!" Finally, the letter was finally finished.He got up from the table, turned to me and said: "Go to Znamin Street and give this letter to Zinaida Fyodorovna Krasnovskaya herself. But You have to ask the porter first whether her husband, Mr. Krasnowski, has come back. If he comes back, you don't have to hand in this letter, just come back by car. Wait! . . . When she asks me if I have any company, tell her that I have been sitting with two gentlemen since eight o'clock, writing something."

I drove to Znamin Street.The porter told me that Mr. Krasnowski hadn't returned yet, and I went up the third floor.The door was opened to me by a tall, fat, tan footman with black sideburns.He asked me what I wanted in that sleepy, listless, casual tone that only a footman talks to a footman.Before I could answer, a lady in a black dress came quickly from the hall into the front hall.She narrowed her eyes and looked at me. "Is Zinaida Fyodorovna at home?" I asked. "I am," said the lady. "Here is a letter from Geordy Ivanitch to you." She opened the letter hastily and read it between her hands, and I saw her diamond ring.I can clearly see the soft fine lines on her fair face, the raised chin, and the long and black eyelashes.Judging by her appearance, I estimate that this lady will not be more than twenty-five years old.

"Say hello to him for me and thank him," she said after reading the letter. "Has Geordy Ivanitch any company?" she asked softly and cheerfully, as if ashamed of her suspicions. "There are two gentlemen," I replied. "What are they writing about?" "Say him hello for me, and thank him," she repeated, turning her head on one side, reading the letter as she went, and going out without a sound. I met few women in those days, and this lady whom I occasionally saw made an impression on my mind.I walked back, thinking of her face and the quiet smell of perfume, and I was lost in thought.When I got home, Orlov had gone out.

"Notes" ① 1 Russian mu is equal to 1.09 hectares, about 16 acres in my country. ② According to Leo Tolstoy's initiative founded by the Russian Popular Books Publishing House.