Chapter 8 "Anonymous Stories" VII

seven As I write this, there is a sense of fear that has been cultivated in my heart since I was a child, holding my hand: I am afraid that if I write any further, I will look ridiculous.Whenever I feel like making out with someone and saying something tender, I'm not good at being natural and sincere.Because of this fear, and my inexperience, I cannot tell exactly what changed in my soul at that time. I was not in love with Zinaida Fyodorovna, but the ordinary human feeling I felt for her contained far more youth, freshness, and joy than Orlov's love. Every morning, as I went to work with my shoe brush or my broom, I held my breath, expecting to hear her voice and her footsteps at last.She drank coffee first, and then ate breakfast, and I stood by and watched her.She went into the hall and I handed her the fur coat.I slipped the galoshes on to her tiny feet, and she put her hand on my shoulder.Afterwards, I always look forward to the doorman downstairs ringing the bell to call me, so that I can run to the door to meet her, see her face flushed with cold, her body covered with cold and snowflakes, and hear her short alarm. The cry, speaking of the cold weather, speaking of the coachman.If only you could know how much this means to me!All I wanted was to be in love, to have a family of my own, all I wanted was for my future wife to have just that face, that voice.Whether I was eating, walking the streets at my master's errand, or when I was sleepless at night, I was always dreaming.Orlov threw away women's clothes, children, kitchens, copper pots in disgust, but I picked them up, treasured them in my fantasy, loved them, and asked fate to give them to me.I often dream of my wife, the nursery, the path in the garden, the cottage. . . . I know that, even if I were in love with her, I could not expect the miracle of her loving me in the same way; but the thought did not disturb me.My simple, peaceful feeling, which resembled ordinary affection, contained no jealousy, not even envy, towards Orlov; for I knew that for a sick person like me, personal happiness was possible only in a dream turn up.

Zinaida Fyodorovna at night, waiting for her Jorge to return, stared at a book without turning the pages; whenever she saw Polya crossing the room, she trembled and turned pale, —I always suffer with her at times like this, and a thought arises in my head: just hurry up and pop this annoying abscess, and let her know what they said when they were here at dinner on Thursday. those words.But how can this be done?I saw her cry more and more often.For the first few weeks she smiled and sang her tunes even when Orlov was not at home, but in the second month our apartment was filled with a gloomy and quiet atmosphere, which was lively only on Thursdays.

She courted Orlov.To get fake smiles and kisses from him, she was always kneeling before him and making out with him like a poor puppy.When she walked past a mirror, even if she felt sad, she couldn't help taking a picture and trimming her hair.She still cared about dressing up and was still happy with the things she bought, which secretly surprised me.It was a little out of proportion to her genuine sadness.She pays attention to fashionable clothes, and orders expensive clothes.Why is this, and who is it for?I especially remember a new dress, which cost four hundred rubles.To spend four hundred rubles for a superfluous and unnecessary dress, while our girls earn only twenty kopecks a day for hard labor, and they have to take care of their own food. As for the lace girls in Venice and Brussels , and only get half a franc a day, the bosses expect them to subsidize their family by selling laughter.I was secretly surprised that Zinaida Fyodorovna ignored this, and I was very angry.But as soon as she was out of the house, I excused it all again, found an explanation for it, and hoped that the porter would ring downstairs for me.

She treated me as she treated a page, an inferior.One can pet a dog without feeling that such a dog exists.People sent me and asked me questions, but they didn't care that I was there.Both masters thought it indecent to speak to me beyond the bounds of what a master usually speaks to a servant.If I waited on them, put in a word in their conversation, or laughed, they were sure to think me crazy, and send me away.But Zinaida Fyodorovna looked at me differently.Whenever she sent me somewhere, or explained to me how to use the new lamps, or anything like that, her face was always very bright, kind, kind, and her eyes were fixed on mine.At such times, I always felt that she remembered with gratitude that I used to deliver letters to Znamin Street.When she rang the bell, Polya, who thought I was her confidant and hated me, would sneer and say, "Go, your mistress is calling for you."

Zinaida Fyodorovna regarded me as inferior, but she did not realize that if anyone in this house was in an inferior position, it was her.She doesn't know that I, the page, feel sorry for her, and I ask myself twenty times a day what lies ahead for her, and how the situation will end.Things clearly went from bad to worse day by day. Since they talked about their official positions that evening, Orlov, who didn't like to see tears, was obviously afraid and avoided talking to her.Whenever Zinaida Fyodorovna began to quarrel with him, or beseeched him, or was about to cry, he always found some suitable excuse to retreat to his study, or simply to leave the house.He spent less and less time at home overnight, and even less often at home for meals.Every Thursday, he always asked his friends to take him out of town.Zinaida Fyodorovna dreamed, as before, of her kitchen, of a new house and of foreign travel, but dreams remained dreams.Her meals were still delivered by the restaurant, and Orlov asked her to bring up the question of moving after returning from a trip abroad. As for the trip, he said that he would not start until his hair grew out, because there was no such thing as long hair. You can't run from hotel to hotel, and you can't work for your dreams.

Besides, in the evenings when Orlov was away, Kukushkin often came to visit.There was nothing extraordinary about his behavior, but I still can't forget what he said in that conversation about taking Zinaida Fyodorovna from Orlov.She invited him to tea and claret, and he, grinning and wanting to say something flattering, repeated that a free union is in every way better than a church marriage, and indeed all decent people should be. Come to Zinaida Fyodorovna and fall at her feet.