Chapter 7 "Anonymous Stories" VI

six Zinaida Fyodorovna had lost a little gold watch which her father had given her.This time the loss of the gold watch surprised and frightened her.It took her half a day to walk through the rooms, examining all the tables and window sills in a trance, but the watch was like a stone sinking into the sea, and there was no trace of it. Soon after this, two or three days later, Zinaida Fyodorovna returned from the outside and left her purse in the hall.It was also my luck that this time it was not I who helped her take off her coat, but Polya.When she found out that the wallet was not there, she looked for it, and the wallet in the front hall was gone.

"Strange!" said Zinaida Fyodorovna, bewildered. "I remember very well, when I took it out of my pocket, to pay for the carriage, . I didn't steal, but I had a feeling as if I'd been caught stealing.I even shed tears.When they sat down to lunch, Zinaida Fyodorovna said to Orlov in French: "We are haunted here. Today I left my purse in the hall, but when I saw it just now on the table. But those ghosts are not selfish in this trick. They take a guinea and twenty rubles as payment." "One moment you lose the watch, the next you lose the money..." said Orlov.

"Why has nothing like this ever happened to me?" After a while, Zinaida Fyodorovna, having forgotten her trick, told with a smile that she had ordered some stationery last week, but had forgotten to state her new address, and the shop had sent it to her old one. To give it to her husband, who had to pay twelve rubles as it was billed.Suddenly she stopped her eyes on Polya and fixed her eyes on her.Then she blushed, flustered, and hurried to talk about something else. I took the coffee to the study, and Orlov was standing by the fireplace with his back to the fire, and she was sitting in an armchair, facing him.

"I'm not in a bad mood at all," she said in French. "But when I think about it, it all makes sense. I can tell the day, or even the hour, when she stole my watch. What about the purse? There's no doubt about it. Oh!" she laughed. He said, took the coffee from my hand and went. "Now I understand why I keep throwing away my handkerchief and gloves. Whatever you may think, tomorrow I will quit the magpie and send Stepan to fetch my Sophia. Sophia is not a thief, and she It doesn't look like that ... nasty look." "You're in a bad mood. Tomorrow you'll be in a different mood, and then you'll understand that you don't want to throw a man away just because you doubt him or her."

"I don't doubt it, but I'm sure of it," said Zinaida Fyodorovna. "I doubted that wretched-looking proletarian, your footman, but I didn't say anything. It's too bad, George, that you don't believe me." "If I disagree with you on a matter, it doesn't mean that I don't trust you. Even if you're right," said Orlov, turning back to the fire, and turning his Throwing the cigarette butt into the fire, "but still shouldn't be so excited. Anyway, to be honest, I didn't expect my little home to annoy you so much. You lost a gold coin, oh, that's okay It's nothing, you can take even a hundred coins from me, as for changing the order of life, find another maid from the street, and wait for her to get used to the work in this place, it will take a long time, it is simply too tedious Well, I don't like it. Although our maid is fat, and may like handkerchiefs and gloves, but on the other hand, she is very decent and well-behaved, and Kukushkin pinches her, and she doesn't care. scream."

"In a word, you are reluctant to part with her. . . . Tell the truth." "Are you jealous?" "Yes, I'm jealous!" said Zinaida Fyodorovna emphatically. "Thank you very much." "Yes, I'm jealous!" she repeated, tears welling in her eyes. "No, it's not jealousy, it's worse than that... I can't even find a word to describe this feeling." She pressed her temples with both hands, and continued to speak excitedly: "You men All so despicable! It's terrible!" "I don't see anything terrible about it."

"I haven't seen it with my own eyes, I don't know, but it is said that you men hooked up with maidservants when you were young, and later developed the habit, and you don't feel disgusting at all. I don't know, I don't know, yet I've even read about it in books. ...Jorge, of course, you are right," she said, going up to Orlov, and turning to her affectionate and beseeching tone, "I'm really in a bad mood today.But you know, it's impossible not to be angry.I hate her and fear her.I can't stand seeing her. " "Can't you stand a little higher than these trifles?" said Orlov, shrugging his shoulders in bewilderment, and walking away from the fireplace. "You know, it's never easier: you don't pay attention to her, and she won't annoy you, and you won't have to put on a whole drama about a little thing."

I walked out of the study, wondering what kind of answer Orlov heard.Anyway, Polya stayed with us.Zinaida Fyodorovna did not order her to do anything after that, and evidently tried very hard not to have her serve her. Whenever Polya brought her something, or even just walked by her, bracelets jingling, skirts rustling, she would tremble. I think that if Gruzin or Pikarsky had asked Orlov to dismiss Polya, he would have done so without hesitation.He was easygoing, like all indifferent people.Yet for some reason, in his relations with Zinaida Fyodorovna, he was not yielding an inch even in trivial matters, sometimes to the point of capriciousness.I knew beforehand that if Zinaida Fyodorovna liked something, he would not like it.When she came back from the store, she hurriedly spread out the newly bought things in front of him, and he always glanced at them casually and said coldly that the more extra things in the house, the less empty space there would be.

Sometimes he would have put on his frock-coat and was going somewhere, and had said good-bye to Zinaida Fyodorovna, and suddenly lose his temper and stay at home.At such times, it seemed to me that he stayed at home simply to make himself unhappy. "Why did you stay again?" Zinaida Fyodorovna said with feigned annoyance, but in fact her face was beaming with joy. "Why? You are used to staying out of the evening, and I don't want you to change your habits for me. If you don't want to make me feel guilty, go about it yourself, go." "Is anyone blaming you?" said Orlov.

He sat down in the armchair in the study with the air of a victim, shaded his eyes with his hands, and picked up a book.Presently, however, the book fell from his hand, and he writhed awkwardly in the armchair, and again covered his eyes with his hands, as if to block the sun.At this time, he was already annoyed because he didn't go out. "May I come in?" said Zinaida Fyodorovna, entering the study hesitantly. "Are you reading? I'm so bored, I just came to see you... I'll leave in a while." I remember that one evening she came in just like that, hesitantly and untimely, and sat down on the rug at Orlov's feet.It can be seen from her timid and light-footed movements that she doesn't understand his mood and is secretly afraid.

"You're always reading..." she said flatteringly, obviously trying to win him over. "Jorge, do you know one of the secrets of your success? You have knowledge and intelligence. What book are you reading?" Orlov made a reply, and there was silence for a few minutes, which seemed to me a long time.I stood in the living room, watching the two of them, afraid of coughing myself. "I have something to tell you..." whispered Zinaida Fyodorovna, and laughed. "Can you say that? You'll probably laugh at that, it's self-absorbed. Guess what, I thought, I thought, you're here today for my sake . . . to spend the evening with me. .Is that right? Can you think of it that way?" "Just think so," said Orlov, covering his eyes with his hands. "Truly happy people think not only of things that actually exist, but even of things that do not actually exist." "Your sentence is too long, and I didn't quite catch it. So you mean to say that happy people live in illusions? Yes, it is true. I like to sit in your study every evening and let me My thoughts have carried me far, far away. . . . Fantasy is always pleasant. Come, George, let us talk about our fantasy!" "I haven't attended a noble girls' high school, so I'm not proficient in this subject." "Are you in a bad mood?" Zinaida Fyodorovna asked, taking Orlov's hand. "Tell me: why? I am always afraid when you are like this. I don't know whether it is because you have a headache or because you are angry with me. ..." Another long few minutes passed in silence. "Why did you change your attitude?" she said softly. "Why aren't you as gentle and cheerful as you used to be in Znamin Street? I've lived with you for almost a month, but I feel as if we haven't started life yet, and haven't talked about anything properly. You always answer me with jokes, or else you talk in a cold and long manner, like a teacher giving a lecture. Even your jokes have a cold taste. . . . Why are you no longer serious with me? Have you talked properly?" "I've always been serious in my speech." "Well, let's talk then. For God's sake, George. . . . Let's talk?" "Talk. But what?" "Let's talk about our lives, our future . . . " said Zinaida Fyodorovna thoughtfully. "I've been planning our lives, I've been planning, and I'm so happy! Let me begin, George, with a question: when will you resign from your post?" "Why?" asked Orlov, putting his hand down on his forehead. "A man of your opinion cannot hold public office. It does not suit you." "My opinion?" Orlov asked. "My opinion? As far as my beliefs and temperament are concerned, I am an ordinary civil servant, a character in Schedrin's works. I think you must have mistaken me for another kind of person." "You're joking again, Jorge!" "Not at all. It may not satisfy me, but it's better for me than any other job. I'm used to it there, and the people are just like me. In any case, I'm It’s not a superfluous person there, I think it’s a good time to be there.” "You hate officialdom, you hate being an official." "Really? If I hand in my resignation, tell my fantasies, and fly to another world, do you think that world will be less hateful to me than officialdom?" "You are even ready to slander yourself in order to contradict me," Zinaida Fyodorovna said displeasedly, rising. "I regret starting this conversation." "Why are you angry? I am not angry because you are not an official. Everyone lives according to his own heart." "So, do you live according to your own will? Do you feel free? All your life you write papers that go against your convictions," Zinaida Fyodorovna went on, clasping her hands together in despair. " Bow down to your boss, give him New Year's greetings, then play cards, play cards, play cards, and the main thing is that you have to serve a system that you can't possibly like. No, Jorge, no! You shouldn't joke like that .It's horrible. You're a man of ideas, and you should only work for ideas." "Really, you mistook me for another kind of person," said Orlov with a sigh. "Just say you don't want to talk to me. You hate me, that's all," said Zinaida Fyodorovna, with tears. "Listen, my dear," Orlov said, sitting upright in the armchair, in a lecturing tone, "by your sympathy, I have just said that I am a man of knowledge and intelligence, so teach a A learned man is only self-defeating. You just called me a man of thought, and I know very well what you have in mind, both small and great thoughts. Therefore, if I would rather be an official and play cards than Those thoughts, then I always have my reasons. This is one. Second, as far as I know, you have never been an official, and your judgment of government office can only be obtained from hearsay and bad fiction. So let's just leave it at that: don't talk about things we already know and don't talk about things we're not qualified to comment on." "Why do you say such things to me?" said Zinaida Fyodorovna, stepping back, as if frightened. "Why? Jorge, for God's sake, you should wake up!" Her voice faltered and stopped.She clearly wanted to hold back her tears, but suddenly burst into tears. "Jorge, my dear, I am finished!" she said in French, and quickly knelt down before Orlov, laying her head on his knee. "I was in agony, I was exhausted, I couldn't take it anymore, I couldn't take it anymore.  … When I was a child, I was tortured by my hateful, lecherous stepmother, then my husband, and now Well, it's you, you. . . I love you madly, and you repay me with scorn and indifference. . . "Yes, yes, I understand that I am not your wife, nor your friend, but a woman whom you do not respect for being your mistress. ... Then I commit suicide! " I did not expect these words and this bitter cry to have such a strong effect on Orlov.He blushed, and writhed restlessly on the armchair, the sneering expression on his face disappeared, and a dazed and childlike panic appeared on his face. "My dear, I swear to you, you don't understand me," he murmured nervously, stroking her hair and shoulders. "Please forgive me, I beg you. I was wrong, and . . . I hate myself." "My grievances and complaints just now insulted you.... You are an upright, magnanimous... rare person in the world. I can feel this at any time. But these days I have been terribly distressed..." Qi Naida Fyodorovna threw her arms round Orlov and kissed him on the face. "Just don't cry, don't cry," he said. "Don't cry, don't cry...I've cried enough, and I feel relieved." "As for the maid, she must not be here tomorrow," he said, still writhing restlessly in the armchair. "No, let her stay, George! Do you hear me? I am no longer afraid of her. ...Small things should not be taken to heart, should not be cranky.You are right.You are one of a kind... amazing man! " She stopped crying quickly.She sat down on Orlov's knees, with fresh tears glistening on her eyelashes, and whispered something touching to him, as if recalling her childhood and youth.She reached out to touch his face, kissed him, studied his ringed hand and the pendant on his watch-chain.She was fascinated by the talk, intoxicated by the proximity of the one she loved.Probably the tears just now had washed her soul clean and filled her soul with vitality. Anyway, her voice was very pure and sincere.Orlov stroked her chestnut hair, wordlessly brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. Afterwards they drank tea in the study, and Zinaida Fyodorovna read some letters aloud.After twelve o'clock, they went to bed. That night I had a severe chest pain, and I hadn't slept warmly until early morning, and couldn't sleep.I heard Orlov come out of the bedroom and go to his study.After sitting there for about an hour, he rang the bell.I was sore and very tired, and I forgot all manners and manners, and walked barefoot to my study in my underwear.Orlov, in his pajamas and nightcap, was waiting for me at the door. "You'll have to get dressed when I'm called," he snapped. "Bring some more candles." I was about to apologize when I suddenly coughed very hard.In order not to fall, I reached out with one hand and grabbed the door frame. "Are you sick?" Orlov asked. It seemed like the first time he addressed me as "you" since we'd known each other.God only knows why.I probably didn't play my part well, I wasn't an errand, because I was only wearing my underwear, and my face changed so much from coughing. "Why do you come to work when you are sick?" he said. "In order not to starve to death," I replied. "This kind of thing, really, sucks!" he said softly, making his way to his desk. I was dressed, and new candles were placed and lit, while he sat down at the table, stretched out his feet on an armchair, and opened the pages of a book with his knife. I left him alone, absorbed in his book, which no longer fell from his hand as it usually did in the evening.