VI
ZINAIDA FYODOROVNA’S GOLDEN watch, once given to her by her father, disappeared. This disappearance astonished and frightened her. For half a day she walked through all the rooms, looking in perplexity at the tables and windowsills, but the watch had vanished into thin air.
Soon after that, about three days later, Zinaida Fyodorovna, having come back from somewhere, forgot her purse in the front hall. Fortunately for me, it was not I who helped her out of her things but Polya. When the purse was found missing, it was no longer in the front hall.
‘‘Strange!’’ Zinaida Fyodorovna was puzzled. ‘‘I remember perfectly well taking it out of my pocket to pay the cabby...and then putting it here by the mirror. Wonders!’’
I hadn’t stolen it, but a feeling came over me as if I had stolen it and had been caught. Tears even came to my eyes. When they sat down to dinner, Zinaida Fyodorovna said to Orlov in French:
‘‘We have ghosts here. Today I lost my purse in the front hall, but I looked just now, and it was lying on my desk. But it was not an unmercenary trick the ghosts played. They took a gold piece and twenty roubles for their work.’’
‘‘First your watch disappeared, and now it’s money . . .’’ said Orlov. ‘‘Why does nothing like that ever happen with me?’’
A minute later, Zinaida Fyodorovna no longer remembered the trick the ghosts had played, and was laughingly telling how she had ordered some stationery a week ago but had forgotten to leave her new address in the shop, and the stationery had been sent to her husband at the old apartment, and her husband had had to pay the bill of twelve roubles. And she suddenly rested her gaze on Polya and looked at her intently. With that, she blushed and became confused to such a degree that she started talking about something else.
When I brought coffee to the study, Orlov was standing by the fireplace with his back to the fire, and she was sitting in an armchair facing him.
‘‘I’m not at all in a bad mood,’’ she was saying in French. ‘‘But I’ve started to figure it out now, and it’s all clear to me.
I can name you the day and even the hour when she stole my watch. And the purse? There can be no doubts here. Oh!’’ she laughed, taking the coffee from me. ‘‘Now I understand why I lose my handkerchiefs and gloves so often. As you like, but tomorrow I’ll let the magpie go and send Stepan for my Sofya. She’s not a thief, and she doesn’t have such a...repugnant look.’’
‘‘You’re out of sorts. Tomorrow you’ll be in a different mood, and you’ll understand that it’s impossible to dismiss a person only because you suspect her of something.’’
‘‘I don’t suspect, I’m certain,’’ said Zinaida Fyodorovna. ‘‘All the while I suspected that proletarian with the wretched face, your servant, I never said a word. It’s too bad you don’t believe me, Georges.’’
‘‘If you and I think differently about something, it doesn’t mean I don’t believe you. You may be right,’’ said Orlov, turning to the fire and throwing his cigarette into it, ‘‘but even so, you oughtn’t to get excited. Generally, I must confess, I didn’t expect that my small household would cause you so many serious cares and worries. A gold piece disappeared—well, God be with it, take a hundred of mine, but to change the order, to bring in a new maid from outside, wait till she gets used to it here—it’s all long, boring, and not in my character. True, our present maid is fat and maybe has a weakness for gloves and handkerchiefs, but to make up for it, she’s quite decent, disciplined, and doesn’t squeal when Kukushkin pinches her.’’
‘‘In short, you can’t part with her . . . Just say so.’’
‘‘Are you jealous?’’
‘‘Yes, I’m jealous!’’ Zinaida Fyodorovna said resolutely.
‘‘Thanks.’’
‘‘Yes, I’m jealous!’’ she repeated, and tears glistened in her eyes. ‘‘No, it’s not jealousy but something worse . . . I have a hard time naming it.’’ She put her hands to her temples and went on impulsively: ‘‘You men are sometimes so vile! It’s terrible!’’
‘‘I see nothing terrible here.’’
‘‘I haven’t seen it, I don’t know, but they say still in childhood you men begin with maids and then out of habit don’t feel any disgust at it. I don’t know, I don’t know, but I’ve even read . . . Georges, you’re right, of course,’’ she said, going up to Orlov and changing her tone to a tender and pleading one, ‘‘in fact, I am out of sorts today. But understand that I can’t be otherwise. I find her repugnant, and I’m afraid of her. It’s painful for me to see her.’’
‘‘Is it really impossible to rise above this pettiness?’’ said Orlov, shrugging his shoulders in perplexity and stepping away from the fireplace. ‘‘Nothing could be simpler: don’t pay attention to her, and she won’t be repugnant, and there will be no need for you to make a whole drama out of a trifle.’’
I left the study and do not know what reply Orlov received. Be that as it may, Polya stayed with us. After that, Zinaida Fyodorovna would not address her for anything and obviously tried to do without her services; whenever Polya handed her something, or even merely passed by, jingling her bracelet and rustling her skirts, she shuddered.
I think that if Gruzin or Pekarsky had asked Orlov to dismiss Polya, he would have done it without the slightest hesitation, not troubling himself with any explanations; he was tractable, like all indifferent people. But in his relations with Zinaida Fyodorovna, for some reason, he showed a stubbornness, even in petty things, which at times went as far as tyranny. I just knew that if Zinaida Fyodorovna liked something, he was bound not to like it. When she came back from shopping and hastened to boast to him of her new purchases, he would glance fleetingly at them and say coldly that the more superfluous things there were in the apartment, the less air there was. It would happen that, having already put on his tailcoat to go out somewhere and having already taken leave of Zinaida Fyodorovna, he would suddenly stay home out of stubbornness. It seemed to me then that he was staying home only to feel miserable.
‘‘Why did you stay?’’ Zinaida Fyodorovna would say with affected vexation and at the same time beaming with pleasure. ‘‘Why? You’re used to spending your evenings out, and I don’t want you to change your habits for my sake. Go, please, if you don’t want me to feel guilty.’’
‘‘Is anyone blaming you?’’ Orlov would say.
With a victimized look, he would sprawl on the armchair in his study and, shielding his eyes with his hand, pick up a book. But the book would soon drop from his hands, he would turn heavily on the chair and again shield his eyes as if from the sun. Now he was vexed that he had not gone out.
‘‘May I come in?’’ Zinaida Fyodorovna would say, hesitantly coming into the study. ‘‘You’re reading? And I got bored and came for one little minute . . . to have a look.’’
I remember on one of those evenings she came in that way, hesitantly and inopportunely, and lowered herself onto the rug by Orlov’s feet, and by her timid, soft movements, it was clear that she did not understand his mood and was afraid.
‘‘And you keep reading . . .’’ she began ingratiatingly, evidently wishing to flatter him. ‘‘Do you know, Georges, what is another secret of your success? You’re very educated and intelligent. What book have you got there?’’
Orlov told her. Several minutes of silence passed, which seemed very long to me. I stood in the drawing room, observing them both from there and afraid I might start coughing.
‘‘I wanted to say something to you . . .’’ Zinaida Fyodorovna said quietly and laughed. ‘‘Shall I tell you? Perhaps you’ll start laughing and call it self-delusion. You see, I’d like terribly, terribly much to think that you stayed home tonight for my sake...to spend the evening together. Yes? May I think so?’’