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He screwed up his eyes and remained silent, and when the names of ladies of their acquaintance were mentioned, he held up his little finger as though to say they mustn't give away other people's secrets. Orlov suddenly looked at his watch. His friends understood, and began to take their leave. I remember that Gruzin, who was a little drunk, was wearisomely long in getting off.
"No, there's no need . . . it's nothing," she said, and she looked at me with her tear-stained eyes. "I have a little headache. . . . Thank you." I went out, and in the evening she was writing letter after letter, and sent me out first to Pekarsky, then to Gruzin, then to Kukushkin, and finally anywhere I chose, if only I could find Orlov and give him the letter.
"But let us get off, or we shall be meeting her on the doorstep." "'Vieni pensando a me segretamente," hummed Gruzin. At last they drove off: Orlov did not sleep at home, and returned next day at dinner-time. Zinaida Fyodorovna had lost her gold watch, a present from her father. This loss surprised and alarmed her.
After he had finished his dinner they sat in the drawing-room by the light of a single lamp, and did not speak; it was painful to him to lie to her, and she wanted to ask him something, but could not make up her mind to. So passed half an hour. Gruzin glanced at his watch. "I suppose it's time for me to go." "No, stay a little. . . . We must have a talk." Again they were silent.
Gruzin died of diphtheria a year ago. . . . Kukushkin is alive, and often speaks of you. By the way," said Orlov, dropping his eyes with an air of reserve, "when Kukushkin heard who you were, he began telling every one you had attacked him and tried to murder him . . . and that he only just escaped with his life." I did not speak.
He went off into a peal of laughter as though he had said something very amusing. I watched Gruzin, expecting that his musical soul would not endure this laughter, but I was mistaken. His thin, good-natured face beamed with pleasure.
I had been to Pekarsky's flat before that is, I had stood in the hall and looked into the drawing-room, and, after the damp, gloomy street, it always struck me by the brilliance of its picture-frames, its bronzes and expensive furniture. To-day in the midst of this splendour I saw Gruzin, Kukushkin, and, after a minute, Orlov. "Look here, Stepan," he said, coming up to me.
"What Turgenev has got to do with it I don't understand," said Gruzin softly, and he shrugged his shoulders. "Do you remember, George, how in 'Three Meetings' he is walking late in the evening somewhere in Italy, and suddenly hears, 'Vieni pensando a me segretamente," Gruzin hummed. "It's fine." "But she hasn't come to settle with you by force," said Pekarsky. "It was your own wish." "What next!
You are a weak, unhappy, unpleasant person!" Zinaida Fyodorovna began playing the piano in the drawing-room, trying to recall the song of Saint Saëns that Gruzin had played. I went and lay on my bed, but remembering that it was time for me to go, I got up with an effort and with a heavy, burning head went to the table again. "But this is the question," I went on. "Why are we worn out?
We had two other visitors that day besides the old man. In the evening when it was quite dark, Gruzin came to fetch some papers for Orlov. He opened the table-drawer, took the necessary papers, and, rolling them up, told me to put them in the hall beside his cap while he went in to see Zinaida Fyodorovna. She was lying on the sofa in the drawing-room, with her arms behind her head.
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