Chapter 14 "Anonymous Stories" Thirteen

Thirteen I fumbled in the dark for at least half a minute before I found the door, then slowly pushed it open and walked into the living room.Zinaida Fyodorovna was lying on a sofa-bed, propping herself up on her elbows, and looking straight at me.I couldn't make up my mind to tell the truth, so I walked slowly past her, her eyes fixed on me.I stood in the hall for a while, then walked in front of her again.She looked at me attentively, wondering, even frightened.I finally stopped and said with difficulty: "He won't come back!" She stood up quickly and looked at me, not understanding what I meant.

"He's not coming back!" I said again, my heart beating wildly. "He won't come back because he hasn't left Petersburg. He's staying at the Pikarskys'." She understood, and believed me, as I saw in her sudden pallor, and the way she folded her arms across her breast in a sudden look of terror and entreaty.In an instant, her recent experience flashed through her mind, and after she pondered for a while, she saw the whole truth of the matter with a clear understanding.But then she remembered that I was a footman, a low class. ... A vagabond, disheveled, flushed with fever or perhaps alcohol, and wearing a vulgar overcoat, should come and interfere roughly in her private life, which humiliates her.She snapped at me, "I didn't ask you these things. Go away, please."

"Hey, please take my word for it!" I said enthusiastically, reaching out to her. "I'm not a servant, I'm as free as you!" I gave my name and explained who I was and why I was here on duty, and I spoke quickly lest she should interrupt me or go back to her room.This new discovery shocked her even more than the first.She had hoped that the footman was lying, or was mistaken, or was saying something stupid, but now that I told my story, she no longer had the slightest doubt.I could tell from the sad look in her eyes, from the sudden oldness and disfigurement of her face which had lost its softness and made it ugly, that I could do no good by speaking of it, but I spoke eagerly nonetheless. Go on: "What about the privy officer, the inspection work, it's all nonsense coming out to deceive you. It was the same in January as now, he didn't go anywhere, but stayed at Pikarski's house, and I talked to him every day. He met, took part in the scam. He hated you, hated you living here, laughed at you.  … If you could hear how he and his friends laughed at you and your love here, you would be here a minute You can't stay any longer! Get out of here! Get out!"

"Oh, what does that matter?" she said in a trembling voice, raising a hand to stroke her hair. "Oh, what does that matter? Let them talk it out." Her eyes were full of tears, her lips trembled, and her face was pale and angry.She found Orlov's shallow deception despicable and ridiculous.She smiled, and I didn't like that smile. "Oh, what does that matter?" she repeated, raising her hand again to stroke her hair. "Let him go. He thought I'd be so wronged, but I... thought it was ridiculous. He shouldn't be hiding." She walked away from the piano, shrugged and said, "I really shouldn't.  … ...Instead of running away and going to live in someone else's house, it's easier to explain it to the truth. I have eyes, and I have already seen it myself...I'm just waiting for him to come back and tell the truth."

Then she sat down in an armchair by the table, leaned her head on the arm of the couch, and wept mournfully.There was only one candle burning on the candelabrum in the living room, and the armchair she sat in was dark all around, but I saw her head and shoulders trembling, and her combed hair was loose, hanging over her neck, face, and arms. ... Her cry was soft and even, not hysterical. From this ordinary woman's cry, it can be heard that she has been insulted, her self-esteem has been hit, she is angry, and she knows that she has nothing to do. Can be redeemed but unwilling, so depressed and desperate.Her cries echoed in my agitated and anguished soul.I had forgotten my illness, forgotten everything in the world, and walked up and down the drawing-room, murmuring unsteadily: "What kind of life is this? . . . Oh, no one can live like this! No! This It's madness, it's crime, it's not life!"

"What an insult!" she cried. "Obviously he dislikes me and thinks I'm ridiculous...but he lives with me and smiles at me....Ah, what an insult!" She raised her head a little, and looked at me through her tear-stained hair with her tearful eyes; then she pushed back the hair that prevented her from looking at me, and asked, "Are they laughing at me?" "To those people, it's ridiculous whether you, your love, or how much Turgenev you've read. If we were both dying of despair at this moment, they would be too. It's ridiculous. They'll make up a ridiculous story and tell it during your requiem. But why tell them?" I said impatiently. "I have to get out of here. I can't stay here for a minute."

She started crying again, and I went to the piano and sat down. "What are we waiting for?" I asked listlessly. "It's past two o'clock." "I'm not waiting for anything," she said. "I am done." "Why do you say that? Let us think together what to do. Neither you nor I can stay here any longer. . . . Where are you going to go when you leave here?" Suddenly the doorbell rang in the hall.My heart tightened.Could it be that Orlov is back?Did Kukushkin go to him and complain about me?What should I say when I meet him?I went to open the door.It was Polya who had returned.She came in, shook the snow off her cloak in the hall, and went back to her room without saying a word to me.When I returned to the drawing-room, Zinaida Fyodorovna was standing in the middle of the room, pale as death, looking straight at me with wide-open eyes.

"Who's here?" she asked quietly. "Polya," I replied. She raised her hand to stroke her hair and closed her eyes wearily. "I'm going right away," she said. "Excuse me, send me to the suburbs of Petersburg. What time is it? " "A quarter past two."