‘‘But she didn’t force herself on you,’’ said Pekarsky. ‘‘You wanted it yourself.’’
‘‘Well, that’s a good one! I not only didn’t want it, I didn’t even think it would ever happen. When she said she’d move in with me, I thought it was a nice joke.’’
They all laughed.
‘‘I couldn’t want it,’’ Orlov went on in such a tone as if he felt forced to justify himself. ‘‘I’m not a Turgenev hero, and if I ever need to liberate Bulgaria,16 I won’t want the company of women. I look at love first of all as a need of my organism, low and hostile to my spirit; it should be satisfied reasonably or renounced entirely, otherwise it will introduce elements as impure as itself into your life. So that it will be an enjoyment and not a torment, I try to make it beautiful and surround it with a host of illusions. I will not go to a woman if I’m not convinced beforehand that she will be beautiful, attractive; nor will I go to her if I’m not at my best myself. And it’s only under those conditions that we manage to deceive each other, and it seems to us that we love and are happy. But can I want copper pans and uncombed hair, or that I should be seen when I’m unwashed and out of sorts? Zinaida Fyodorovna, in the simplicity of her heart, wants to make me love something I’ve been hiding from all my life. She wants my apartment to smell of cooking and dishwashing; she needs to move noisily to a new apartment, drive around with her own horses; she needs to count my linen and look after my health; she needs to interfere in my private life every moment and watch over my every step, and at the same time to assure me sincerely that my habits and freedom will remain my own. She’s convinced that we’ll
take a trip in the nearest future, like newlyweds; that is, she wants to be with me constantly on the train and in hotels, and yet I like to read when I travel and can’t bear talking.’’
‘‘But you can admonish her,’’ said Pekarsky.
‘‘How? Do you think she’d understand me? Mercy, we think so differently! In her opinion, to leave her papa and mama or her husband for the man she loves is the height of civic courage, but in my opinion, it’s childishness. To fall in love, to become intimate with a man, means starting a new life for her, but in my opinion, it doesn’t mean anything. Love and a man constitute the main essence of her life, and maybe in this respect the philosophy of the unconscious17 is at work in her. Try convincing her that love is only a simple need, like food and clothing, that the world is by no means perishing because husbands and wives are bad, that one can be a debauchee, a seducer, and at the same time a man of genius and nobility, and, on the other hand, that one can renounce the pleasures of love and at the same time be a stupid, wicked animal. The contemporary cultured man, even if he stands very low—a French worker, for instance— spends ten sous a day on dinner, five sous on wine to go with dinner, and from five to ten sous on a woman, while giving his mind and nerves entirely to his work. Zinaida Fyodorovna gives not sous but her whole soul to love. I could perhaps admonish her, but in reply, she’ll cry out sincerely that I have ruined her, that she has nothing left in life.’’
‘‘Don’t say anything to her,’’ said Pekarsky, ‘‘simply rent a separate apartment for her. That’s all.’’
‘‘It’s easy to say . . .’’
A brief silence ensued.
‘‘But she’s sweet,’’ said Kukushkin. ‘‘She’s charming. Such women imagine they’re going to love eternally and give themselves with pathos.’’
‘‘But you’ve got to have a head on your shoulders,’’ said Orlov, ‘‘you’ve got to reason. All the experiences known to us from everyday life, and set down in the scrolls of countless novels and plays, unanimously confirm that no adulterous relations and cohabitations among decent people, however great their love is in the beginning, last longer than two years, three at the most. She should know that. And so all these moves, pots and pans, and hopes for eternal love and harmony, are nothing more than a wish to deceive herself and me. She’s sweet and charming—who’s arguing? But she has upset the applecart of my life. What I’ve considered stuff and nonsense till now, she forces me to raise to the degree of a serious question, I serve an idol I’ve never considered a god. She’s sweet and charming, but for some reason now, when I come home from work, I’m uneasy at heart, as if I expect to encounter some discomfort at home, like stove-makers who have dismantled all the stoves and heaped up mountains of bricks. In short, it’s not sous that I give for love now, it’s part of my peace and my nerves. And that’s bad.’’
‘‘And what if she could hear this villain!’’ sighed Kukushkin. ‘‘My dear sir,’’ he said theatrically, ‘‘I shall release you from the onerous duty of loving this charming being! I shall woo Zinaida Fyodorovna away from you!’’
‘‘Go ahead . . .’’ Orlov said carelessly.
For half a minute Kukushkin laughed in a thin little voice and shook all over, then he said:
‘‘Watch out, I’m not joking! Please don’t play the Othello afterwards!’’
They all began talking about how indefatigable Kukushkin was in amorous affairs, how irresistible he was for women and dangerous for husbands, and how devils would roast him on hot coals in the other world for his dissolute life. He kept silent and narrowed his eyes, and when ladies of his acquaintance were named, he shook his little finger threateningly—meaning, don’t give away other people’s secrets. Orlov suddenly looked at his watch.
The guests understood and made ready to leave. I remember Gruzin, drunk on wine, this time was painfully long getting dressed. He put on his coat, which resembled the capotes they used to make for children in unwealthy families, raised his collar, and began telling something lengthy; then, seeing that no one was listening to him, he threw his plaid that smelled of the nursery over his shoulder, and asked me, with a guilty, pleading look, to find his hat.
‘‘Georginka, my angel!’’ he said tenderly. ‘‘Listen to me, dearest, let’s take a drive out of town!’’
‘‘You go, I can’t. I have the status of a married man now.’’
‘‘She’s nice, she won’t be angry. My kindly superior, let’s go! The weather’s splendid, a little blizzard, a little frost . . . Word of honor, you need shaking up, you’re out of sorts, devil knows . . .’’
Orlov stretched, yawned, and looked at Pekarsky.
‘‘Will you go?’’ he asked, reconsidering.
‘‘Don’t know. Perhaps.’’
‘‘At least get drunk, eh? All right, I’ll go,’’ Orlov decided after some hesitation. ‘‘Wait, I’ll go and get some money.’’
He went to his study, and Gruzin trudged after him, dragging his plaid behind him. A moment later, they both came back to the front hall. Gruzin, tipsy and very pleased, crumpled a ten-rouble note in his hand.
‘‘We’ll settle up tomorrow,’’ he said. ‘‘And she’s kind, she won’t be angry... She’s my Lizochka’s godmother, I love her, poor woman. Ah, my dear man!’’ he suddenly laughed joyfully and pressed his forehead to Pekarsky’s back. ‘‘Ah, Pekarsky, my soul! Attornissimus, dry as a dry rusk, but he sure likes women . . .’’
‘‘Add: fat ones,’’ said Orlov, putting on his fur coat. ‘‘However, let’s go, or else we’ll meet her in the doorway.’’
‘‘Vieni pensando a me segretamente! ’’ sang Gruzin.
They finally left. Orlov did not spend the night at home and came back only by dinnertime the next day.