Chapter 11 "Anonymous Stories"

ten The next day, January 7, is the Feast of John the Baptist.After breakfast, Orlov put on his black coat and medals, and was going to celebrate his name-day with his father.He had to go out around two o'clock, but it was only half past one when he got dressed.How to use the remaining half an hour?He paces the living room, reciting a congratulatory poem he read to his parents as a child.Zinaida Fyodorovna was also sitting there, planning to go to the seamstress or the shop. She listened to him with a smile.I don't know how their conversation started.But when I sent Orlov the gloves, he was standing before Zinaida Fyodorovna and said to her with a stubborn, imploring look: "For God's sake, for all the holy For the sake of business, stop talking about the stuff everyone knows! We smart, thoughtful women have the misfortune to have this talent, always fond of talking feverishly about high school students I'm tired of hearing it already. Oh, I just ask you to keep all these serious matters out of our conjugal life! I can't thank you enough!"

"We women can't have our own opinions." "I give you full freedom. You can keep your own free thoughts. You can quote any writer you like, but please make a concession to me. There are two things not to be mentioned in front of me: the dangers of high society. and the irrationality of the marriage system. You should have figured it out.High society was cursed, and it was always compared with that society in which merchants, priests, petty bourgeois, peasants, sidores and Nikitas of every description lived.I loathe both societies, but if I had to choose one of them in good conscience, I would choose the upper class without hesitation, and this is not a pretense or an affectation, because all my tastes in life are Go with them.Our society is vulgar and empty, but at least we speak French fluently, we can read, and we don't beat each other's ribs with our fists even when we quarrel badly, but those Sidors, Nikitas, And the storekeeper, who speaks vulgar vernacular, 'guaranteed your heart', 'now', 'blind you', and very unbridled tavern habits and idolatry . "

"It's farmers and merchants who feed you." "True, but so what? It's not just disrespectful to me, it's disrespectful to them too. They fed me and bowed their hats when they saw me, showing their lack of wisdom and dignity, so they had to. I don't want to scold anyone , and without trying to flatter anyone, I just want to say that high society is just as bad as low society. I loathe both mentally and emotionally, but I have the same taste in life as high society. Well, now for more Marriage is unreasonable," Orlov said, glancing at his pocket watch, "in fact, you should understand that there is nothing unreasonable about it, it's just that people have made some unclear demands on marriage. What do you hope to get from marriage? Whether it is legal or illegal living together, no matter what kind of union and cohabitation, good or bad, the essence is the same. You women only live for this essence, and this essence is everything to you. For you, your life has no meaning without it. You don't need anything but this substance, and you really have it. But since you've read so many novels, you're ashamed to want it, So you run from here to there, changing men at will, and to justify the nonsense, you talk about the irrationality of marriage. Since you can't and don't want to throw That substance, leave your chief enemy, leave your devil, since you still serve it submissively, how can it be possible to speak seriously? Whatever you say to me, all your words are nothing but Nonsense, posturing. I don't believe you."

I went to the porter to see if the sledges were hired.When I got back, they were already arguing.The wind blew harder, as sailors used to say. "I understand that you are trying to frighten me with your cynicism today," said Zinaida Fyodorovna, pacing up and down the drawing-room in great agitation. "I am disgusted to hear you. I am pure before God and before men, and I have nothing to regret. As for my leaving my husband to come to you, I am sorry for that." Proud. I swear to you on my manhood, I am proud!" "Oh, that's great." "If you're an honest, decent man, you should be proud of my actions. It lifts me and you above the level of thousands of people who would like to do like me. Do it, but you cannot make up your mind because of timidity or shallow scruples. But you are not decent. You are afraid of freedom and laugh at pure enthusiasm, because you are afraid that ignorant people will suspect that you are not a gentleman. You dare not introduce me to you My dear friend, you feel that there is nothing more difficult than going to the streets with me. . . . How? Is this not true? Why have you not introduced me to your father and your cousins ​​yet? Why? No , I've had enough!" cried Zinaida Fyodorovna, stamping her foot. "I demand my rights. Please take me to your father!"

"If you want to see him, go yourself. He receives visitors every morning from ten to ten-thirty." "How mean you are!" said Zinaida Fyodorovna, wringing her hands in despair. "Even if you didn't say it from the bottom of your heart, if you didn't think it in your heart, I would hate you for this cruelty of yours. Ah, how base you are!" "We always go around in circles, and we can't talk about the crux of the problem. The whole problem is that you have done something wrong but you are unwilling to admit it. You think I am a hero, that I have some extraordinary thoughts and ideals, As a matter of fact, I am the most ordinary civil servant, a card fanatic, and have no enthusiasm for ideas at all. You escaped from that corrupt high society because of its emptiness and vulgarity, which angered you, and I just happened to A veritable descendant of that society. Please admit it, and think calmly: You should be angry not with me, but with yourself, because it was you who made the mistake, not me.”

"Yes, I admit it: I made a mistake!" "That's great. We've finally got down to business, thank God. Now, if you like, please listen to me. I can't raise me to your level, because I'm too bad. I want you to lower it." You can't do it on my level, because you're too noble. Then there's only one way left. . . . " "What way?" Zinaida Fyodorovna asked quickly, holding her breath, His face suddenly turned as white as a piece of paper. "Only logic can help.  …" "Geyordy, why are you torturing me?" Zinaida Fyodorovna suddenly switched to Russian, her voice trembling. "What's the matter? You should understand my pain..." Orlov, afraid of tears, hurried back to the study, and for some reason, was he planning to add to her pain, or remembering what people used to do in similar situations? In short, he locked the door casually.With a cry she ran towards him, her dress rustling.

"What does that mean?" she asked, knocking on the door. "What... what does this mean?" she repeated, her voice thin and broken with anger. "Ah, so you are such a person? Then you should know: I hate you and despise you! Everything is over between us!It's all over! " At this time, there was hysterical crying, mixed with laughter.In the living room a small object fell off the table and broke.From the study Orlov slipped into the hall through another door, looked back timidly, put on his overcoat and hat hastily, and went out. After half an hour, an hour, she was still crying.I thought of her having no parents, no relatives, living here among a man who hated her, and Polya who stole from her—how desolate her life seemed to me!Not knowing why myself, I went to the living room to see her.Her frailty, and her fine hair, seemed to me a paragon of tenderness and grace.She was in great pain, as if sick.She was lying on a couch, hiding her face, trembling all over.

"Madam, do you want to invite the doctor?" I asked softly. "No, no, . . . nothing," she said, looking at me with tear-stained eyes. "I have a headache. . . . Thank you." I go out.In the evening she wrote letters one after another, sending me now to the Pikarskis, now to the Kukushkins, now to the Gruzin's, and finally to wherever I liked Go, just to find Orlov as soon as possible and give him the letter.Whenever I came back with the original letter, she always scolded me, begged me, and stuffed money into my hand, as if I had a fever.She couldn't sleep at night and sat in the living room talking to herself.

They reconciled when Orlov returned near lunchtime the next day. Then, on Thursday, Orlov complained to his friends about the unbearable burden of his life.He smoked a lot and said indignantly: "This is not life, this is suffering. Tears, wailing, polite conversation, asking for forgiveness, and then tears, and wailing, in short, now I have no self." I'm in trouble, and she's in trouble too. Are we going to live like this for another month or two? Is it really going to be like this? No, it's very possible!" "Then you talk to her," Pikarski said. "I tried, but I couldn't get on with it. To an independent and reasonable man, any truth could be spoken boldly, but here I am dealing with a man who has no will, no character, no reason. People. I can't stand tears, and when they come, I can't stand them. When she cries, I'll swear that I'll love her forever, and I'll cry myself."

Pikarski didn't understand, scratched his broad forehead thoughtfully, and said: "Really, you should rent her another house. It's very simple!" "She needs me, not a house. But what's the use of saying that?" Orlov said with a sigh. "I only hear endless conversations, but I can't see any way out of my situation. This is called innocent suffering! I am not a fungus, but I am forced to get into a basket①. I have avoided the role of a hero all my life. I was so afraid of it, I could never stand Turgenev's novels, and suddenly, as if joking with me, I was regarded as a real hero. I assure her of my personality that I am not a hero at all. She has produced irrefutable evidence to prove it, but she does not believe me. Why not? Perhaps there is something heroic about my appearance."

"Then go and inspect the work in the provinces," Kukushikin said with a smile. "At present, this is the only way." A week after this conversation, Orlov announced that he had been ordered to accompany a privy councilor again, and that evening he had gone to the Pikarskis' with his suitcase. "Notes" ① There is a Russian proverb: "Since you are called a fungus, you should get into the basket." It means: "Since you start to do something, you have to take responsibility."