An Anonymous Story
- A. P. Chekhov
For at least half a minute I fumbled at the door in the dark,
feeling for the handle; then I slowly opened it and walked into
the drawing-room. Zinaida Fyodorovna was lying on the couch, and
raising herself on her elbow, she looked towards me. Unable to
bring myself to speak, I walked slowly by, and she followed me
with her eyes. I stood for a little time in the dining-room and
then walked by her again, and she looked at me intently and with
perplexity, even with alarm. At last I stood still and said with
"He is not coming back."
She quickly got on to her feet, and looked at me without
"He is not coming back," I repeated, and my heart beat
violently. "He will not come back, for he has not left
Petersburg. He is staying at Pekarsky's."
She understood and believed me -- I saw that from her sudden
pallor, and from the way she laid her arms upon her bosom in
terror and entreaty. In one instant all that had happened of
late flashed through her mind; she reflected, and with pitiless
clarity she saw the whole truth. But at the same time she
remembered that I was a flunkey, a being of a lower order. . . .
A casual stranger, with hair ruffled, with face flushed with
fever, perhaps drunk, in a common overcoat, was coarsely
intruding into her intimate life, and that offended her. She
said to me sternly:
"It's not your business: go away."
"Oh, believe me!" I cried impetuously, holding out my hands to
her. "I am not a footman; I am as free as you."
I mentioned my name, and, speaking very rapidly that she might
not interrupt me or go away, explained to her who I was and why
I was living there. This new discovery struck her more than the
first. Till then she had hoped that her footman had lied or made
a mistake or been silly, but now after my confession she had no
doubts left. From the expression of her unhappy eyes and face,
which suddenly lost its softness and beauty and looked old, I
saw that she was insufferably miserable, and that the
conversation would lead to no good; but I went on impetuously:
"The senator and the tour of inspection were invented to deceive
you. In January, just as now, he did not go away, but stayed at
Pekarsky's, and I saw him every day and took part in the
deception. He was weary of you, he hated your presence here, he
mocked at you. . . . If you could have heard how he and his
friends here jeered at you and your love, you would not have
remained here one minute! Go away from here! Go away."
"Well," she said in a shaking voice, and moved her hand over her
hair. "Well, so be it."
Her eyes were full of tears, her lips were quivering, and her
whole face was strikingly pale and distorted with anger. Orlov's
coarse, petty lying revolted her and seemed to her contemptible,
ridiculous: she smiled and I did not like that smile.
"Well," she repeated, passing her hand over her hair again, "so
be it. He imagines that I shall die of humiliation, and instead
of that I am . . . amused by it. There's no need for him to
hide." She walked away from the piano and said, shrugging her
shoulders: "There's no need. . . . It would have been simpler to
have it out with me instead of keeping in hiding in other
people's flats. I have eyes; I saw it myself long ago. . . . I
was only waiting for him to come back to have things out once
Then she sat down on a low chair by the table, and, leaning her
head on the arm of the sofa, wept bitterly. In the drawing-room
there was only one candle burning in the candelabra, and the
chair where she was sitting was in darkness; but I saw how her
head and shoulders were quivering, and how her hair, escaping
from her combs, covered her neck, her face, her arms. . . . Her
quiet, steady weeping, which was not hysterical but a woman's
ordinary weeping, expressed a sense of insult, of wounded pride,
of injury, and of something helpless, hopeless, which one could
not set right and to which one could not get used. Her tears
stirred an echo in my troubled and suffering heart; I forgot my
illness and everything else in the world; I walked about the
drawing-room and muttered distractedly:
"Is this life? . . . Oh, one can't go on living like this, one
can't. . . . Oh, it's madness, wickedness, not life."
"What humiliation!" she said through her tears. "To live
together, to smile at me at the very time when I was burdensome
to him, ridiculous in his eyes! Oh, how humiliating!"
She lifted up her head, and looking at me with tear-stained eyes
through her hair, wet with her tears, and pushing it back as it
prevented her seeing me, she asked:
"They laughed at me?"
"To these men you were laughable -- you and your love and
Turgenev; they said your head was full of him. And if we both
die at once in despair, that will amuse them, too; they will
make a funny anecdote of it and tell it at your requiem service.
But why talk of them?" I said impatiently. "We must get away
from here -- I cannot stay here one minute longer."
She began crying again, while I walked to the piano and sat
"What are we waiting for?" I asked dejectedly. "It's two
"I am not waiting for anything," she said. "I am utterly lost."
"Why do you talk like that? We had better consider together what
we are to do. Neither you nor I can stay here. Where do you
intend to go?"
Suddenly there was a ring at the bell. My heart stood still.
Could it be Orlov, to whom perhaps Kukushkin had complained of
me? How should we meet? I went to open the door. It was Polya.
She came in shaking the snow off her pelisse, and went into her
room without saying a word to me. When I went back to the
drawing-room, Zinaida Fyodorovna, pale as death, was standing in
the middle of the room, looking towards me with big eyes.
"Who was it?" she asked softly.
"Polya," I answered.
She passed her hand over her hair and closed her eyes wearily.
"I will go away at once," she said. "Will you be kind and take
me to the Petersburg Side? What time is it now?"
"A quarter to three."