Chapter 19 "Anonymous Stories" XVIII

eighteen Two years have passed.Circumstances changed, and I came to Petersburg again, where I could live, and I was no longer in hiding.I no longer worried about being sentimental, or appearing sentimental, and I was absorbed in that paternal love, or rather, in the fatherly love that Zinaida Fyodorovna's daughter Sonya aroused in me. Idolatry feelings are in.I personally fed her, bathed her, put her to bed, and didn't take my eyes off her all night.Whenever it seemed to me that she was about to fall from the nurse's hands, I used to scream.As the years went by, my yearning for ordinary everyday life grew stronger and more irritating; but those wilder dreams stopped beside Sonia, as if I had finally found in her just what I needed like something.I love this little girl like crazy.I see in her the continuation of my life.Not out of imagination, but I feel and almost believe that when I lose my long, skinny, bearded body, I will be in these little pale blue eyes, To live on in those smooth flaxen hairs, in those two fat little pink hands that touched my face so affectionately and put them around my neck.

Sonia's fate worries me.Her father was Orlov, her surname was Krasnovskaya on the birth certificate, and the only person who knew of her existence and was interested in her was me; but I knew that my life was coming to an end, You must seriously plan for her. I went to see Orlov the next day in Petersburg.The door was opened to me by a stout old man with a red-brown beard and no mustache, who seemed to be of Germanic origin.Polyya, who was cleaning the living room, didn't recognize me, but Orlov recognized me at a glance. "Ah, Mr. Rebel!" he said, laughing, and looking at me curiously. "What wind brought you here?"

He hadn't changed at all, he had the same well-kept, unpleasant face, still the same sneering expression.On the table, too, lay a new book, as before, with an ivory-handled knife in it.Apparently he was reading before I came.He asked me to sit down, handed me a cigar, and, with the gallantry of a well-educated man, concealed the unpleasant feeling my face and my thin figure aroused in him, casually said: I haven't changed at all, I'm easily recognizable despite my beard, we talk about the weather, about Paris.In order to get off as quickly as possible the painful question which weighed on him and me and which we had to discuss, he asked: "Zinaida Fyodorovna is dead?"

"Yes, she passed away," I replied. "Did you die because of dystocia?" "Yes, because of dystocia. The doctor suspects other causes of her death, but... for the sake of your and my peace of mind, let us assume that she died of dystocia." He sighed out of politeness, and fell silent, like a quiet angel flying over our heads. "That's right. Everything here is the same as before, nothing special has changed," he said hastily when he noticed that I was looking at the study. "My father, you know, has resigned from office and retired. I still work at the same place. Do you remember Pikarski? He is the same. Gruzin died of diphtheria last year.  … Oh, Ku Kushkin is still alive and thinks of you often. By the way," continued Orlov, lowering his eyes in embarrassment, "when Kukushkin knew what kind of person you were, he went around saying that you attacked him deliberately. Kill him...he managed to save his life."

I didn't speak. "The old servant never forgets the old master. . . . You are very kind," Orlov joked. "But would you like some wine or coffee? I ordered them to make it." "No, thank you. I have come to you on a very important matter, Georgi Ivanitch." "I don't like important things very much, but I would like to help you. What's the matter?" "You know," I began, excitedly, "that the daughter of the late Zinaida Fyodorovna lives here with me. . . . I have been leading her until now, but you It can be seen that in a few days, I will disappear from the world. I hope that before I die, I can know that she has a home."

Orlov blushed a little, frowned, and gave me a stern glance. What offended him was not so much this "important thing" as my "disappeared from the world" remark about death. "Yes, you should think about that," he said, covering his eyes with his hands as if to block the sun. "Thank you, you mean, it's a girl?" "Yes, girl. A very nice girl!" "Oh, not a pug, of course, but a human being, . . . of course to think about it. I'm going to do my best, and . . . thank you." He got up, walked up and down, bit his fingernails, and stopped in front of a painting.

"That's something to think about," he said in a low voice, his back to me. "To-day I'll go to Pikarski's and ask him to come to Krasnovsky's. I don't think Krasnovsky will hold back, and he will agree to keep the girl." "But, I'm sorry, I don't see what Krasnovsky has to do with it," I said, getting up too, and going to a painting at the other end of the study. "But I think she'll always have his name!" said Orlov. "Yes, perhaps he is legally obliged to keep the child, I don't know: but, Geordi Ivanitch, I have not come to you to discuss legal matters."

"Yes, yes, you are right," he agreed hastily. "I seem to be talking nonsense. But don't get excited. We will discuss this matter to the satisfaction of both parties. If one solution fails, change to another! If the other fails, switch to a third, this difficult problem Anyway, it will be settled. Petzorsky will get things sorted out. Please take the trouble to leave me your address and we'll let you know as soon as we've made a decision. Where do you live?" Orlov took my address, sighed, and said with a smile: "My God, what a hassle it is to be the father of a little daughter! But Pikarsky will take care of things. He A so-called shrewd man. Have you lived in Paris long, then?"

"Two months." We were silent for a while.Orlov was obviously worried that I would talk about the little girl again, and in order to draw my attention elsewhere, he said: "You must have forgotten your letter. But I have kept it. I understand. Your mood at that time, to be honest, I respect that letter. 'Cursed cold-blooded', 'Asian', 'horse-like laughter', these are all moving and distinctive ,” he went on, smiling sarcastically. "The basic idea may be close to the truth, but it can also be debated endlessly. I mean," he said hesitantly, "not about the idea itself, but about your attitude to the problem, your impulsive attitude." It is true that my life is abnormal, corrupt, useless, and cowardice prevents me from starting a new life, and you are absolutely right in that respect. But you take such things too seriously, you are excited, And it makes no sense to make yourself discouraged, and in that respect you are quite wrong."

"When a living person sees that he and those around him are going to perish, he cannot but be excited and despair." "Who says no! I am not advocating indifference at all, I just want to take an objective attitude towards life. The more objective you are, the less danger you will make of mistakes. You should find the root of the problem and seek the root of all causes in every phenomenon. The reason. We are weak, we are depraved, we are finally down. We are a generation of neurasthenics and moaners, we talk about being bored and overtired, and you are not responsible for this, nor are you. Not me, we are too small to influence the fate of an entire generation. It must be thought that there are some great and general causes here, some biologically inherent raisond e tre② causes. We are all neurasthenic man, the lethargic man, the man of conviction; yet it may be necessary and good for many generations after us to live. Not a hair will fall from his head without the will of God, for In other words, in nature and among human beings, nothing happens for no reason. Everything has its own reasons and is out of necessity. If this is the case, why should we worry so much and write despairing letters?"

"It's a good word," I thought for a while and said. "I believe that future generations will relax and see more clearly. Our experience will be useful to them. But seriously, people have to live the life in front of them, not just for them. You only live once, and you have to live forever. I want to live vigorously, wisely, and beautifully. Everyone wants to play an outstanding, independent, and noble role. They all want to create history so that future generations have no right to say that any of us are trash, or worse than trash.  … I To believe in the rationality and inevitability of everything that happens around me; yet what does that inevitability have to do with me? Why should I lose my 'me'?" "Oh, what can I do!" sighed Orlov, getting up, as if to let me know that our conversation was over. I pick up my hat. "We only sat for half an hour, but, just imagine, how many problems were solved!" said Orlov, ushering me into the hall. "Then I'll take care of that. . . . I'll go to Pikarski today. Don't worry." He stopped while I was dressed, obviously secretly pleased that I was going to be gone soon. "Geyordy Ivanitch, please return my letter," I said. "As ordered." He went to the study, and returned in a moment with the letter.I said thanks and left. The next day I received a letter from him.He congratulated me and said that the problem had been successfully resolved.He wrote that Pikarski knew a wife who ran a boarding school that looked like a kindergarten and adopted even the very young.The lady was perfectly reliable, but before proceeding with her it would be advisable to speak to Krasnovsky, it was a formality.He advised me to go to Pikarski immediately and take the child's birth certificate with me if I had one.The letter ends with "Believe in the sincere respect and loyalty of your obedient servant. . . . " As I read the letter, Sonia was sitting on the table, watching me intently, without blinking, as if As if she knew her fate was being decided. "Notes" ① Quoted from Griboyedov's comedy "The Pain of Wisdom", some words have been changed. ——Russian text editor's note ② French: meaning.