Chapter 15 "Anonymous Stories" XIV

fourteen After a while we walked out of the house.The street was dark and there were no pedestrians.There was wet snow, and a damp wind whipped our faces.I remember that it was the beginning of March, the season of the thaw, and the streets had been replaced by horse-drawn carriages for several days.The stairs by the back door, the cold, the darkness of the night, the porter in the fur coat who questioned us before letting us go through the gate, all these impressions made Zinaida Fyodorovna dejected and less refreshed. No more.When we got into a carriage and put up the top she hurried to tell me, trembling all over, how grateful she was to me.

"I don't doubt your kindness, but I'm still sorry to think of you taking care of me..." she murmured. "Oh, I see, I see. . . . Gruzin is here today, and I already feel that he is lying and hiding something from me. Well, what does that matter? Let him go. But if you worry about it like this, I'm still sorry." She was also puzzled.In order to completely dispel her suspicions, I told the coachman to drive to Sergiyev Street.The carriage stopped before Pikarski's door, and I got out to ring the bell.When the porter came out, I asked aloud, so that Zinaida Fyodorovna could hear, if Geordy Ivanitch was at home.

"At home," he replied. "He's been back half an hour. He's probably asleep. What's your business? " Zinaida Fyodorovna could not help poking her head out of the carriage. "Has Georgi Ivanovitch lived here long?" she asked. "More than two weeks." "Has he never been out of town?" "No," replied the janitor, looking at me in surprise. "Tell him early tomorrow morning," I said, "that his sister has come to see him from Warsaw. goodbye. " Then we got into the carriage again and drove on.There were no curtains on the carriage, and great flakes of snow fell on us.The wind, especially from the Neva, was bitterly cold.Gradually it seemed to me that we had been in the carriage for a long time, had been in pain for a long time, and I had heard Zinaida Fyodorovna's quivering breathing for a long time.I seemed to be asleep, and in my semi-comatose state I occasionally looked back at my strange and chaotic life and for some reason recalled the melodrama "The Beggar in Paris" which I had seen twice as a child.When I poked my head out of the hood of the car to get out of this half-comatose state and saw the dawn, all those images from the past, all those vague thoughts suddenly merged into one vivid image in my mind. Firm thoughts: Zinaida Fyodorovna and I are irretrievably ruined.It was a belief, as if the cold blue sky contained the prophecy; but after a while I thought of something else, believed something else.

"What am I now?" said Zinaida Fyodorovna, her throat hoarse from the cold and damp. "Where should I go, what should I do?" said Gruzin: To the monastery. Oh, I would like to go! I would change my clothes, my appearance, my name, my thoughts, . . . . . . I would change everything, everything, and hide forever. But I won't be allowed to go to a convent. I'm pregnant." "I will go abroad with you tomorrow," I said. "It can't be done. My husband won't give me a passport." "I can take you there without a passport." The carriage stopped in front of a darkly painted two-story wooden house.I'm going to ring the doorbell.Zinaida Fyodorovna took from me a small and light wicker basket, the only luggage we had brought out, and said with a wry smile: "This is my bijoux.  … "But she was too weak to hold the bijoux. We waited for a long time, but no one came to the door.It wasn't until the third or fourth time the bell rang that there was a light in the window, and there were footsteps, coughing, and whispering.Finally, the door lock clicked, and a fat woman appeared at the door, looking panicked and flushed.Behind her, not far from her, stood a small, thin old woman with short white hair, wearing a white blouse, holding a candle in her hand.Zinaida Fyodorovna ran into the hall and put her arms around the old woman's neck.

"Nina, I've been cheated!" she said, crying. "I have been rudely and meanly deceived! Nina! Nina!" I handed the wicker basket to the woman.The door was closed, but cries and shouts could still be heard: "Nina!" I got into the carriage and told the driver to let the carriage drive slowly to Nevsky Prospekt.I also had to think about where I should spend the night. Next day towards evening I went to Zinaida Fyodorovna's.She has changed a lot.Her pale, very emaciated face was no longer tear-stained, and its expression was different.I don't know whether it's because I'm seeing her now in a different setting that isn't at all luxurious, and our relationship is different than it used to be, or maybe it's because intense grief has left its mark on her, but now she In my mind, it is not as elegant and beautiful as it used to be.Her stature seems to be a little shorter, I can see in her movements, in her gait, and in her face, there is a hint of impulsiveness and impulsiveness, as if she has something to do in a hurry, even Her smile was not as soft as it used to be.At the moment I am wearing the very expensive clothes I bought that day.She glanced first at my dress and the hat I was holding, and then looked at my face with impatience and inquiring eyes, as if to study my features.

"Your change still seems to me a miracle," she said. "Forgive me for looking at you so curiously. You are an unusual man, you know." I told her again who I was and why I was serving as a servant at the Orlovs', longer and more detailed than yesterday.She listened very attentively, and before I could finish, she said: "I'm done with it. You see, I couldn't help writing a letter. Here's the answer." She handed me a piece of paper with Orlov's handwriting on it: "I'm not going to defend myself. But you have to admit: it's your fault, not mine. I wish you happiness, and please forget about respecting you Guy O.

"Additional white: send your items." The boxes and baskets sent by Orlov are here in the drawing-room, and my poor suitcase is also in them. "That means..." said Zinaida Fyodorovna, but did not finish. We were silent for a while.She took the letter, held it up to her eyes, and looked at it for two minutes.At this moment, the expression of arrogance, contempt, pride, and cruelty appeared on her face, just like yesterday when we started talking.Tears welled up in her eyes, but not tears of timidity and bitterness, but tears of pride and anger. "Listen to me," she said, standing up abruptly, and going to the window so that I wouldn't see her face. "I have made a decision to go abroad with you tomorrow."

"That's wonderful. Even if I go today." "Just take me in as a soldier. Have you seen Balzac's works?" She suddenly turned around and asked. "Have you read it? His novel "Pere Goriot" ② ends like this: the hero looks at Paris from the top of a hill and threatens the city: "Now we will pay the bills!" ' After that he started a new life.So do I, and when I look at Petersburg for the last time in the train, I'm going to say to it: 'Now we're going to pay!' For some reason, there was a cold war all over. "Notes"

① French: precious items. ②French:.