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Updated: May 22, 2025
Polya, who was tidying the drawing-room, did not recognise me, but Orlov knew me at once. "Ah, Mr. Revolutionist!" he said, looking at me with curiosity, and laughing. "What fate has brought you?" He was not changed in the least: the same well-groomed, unpleasant face, the same irony. And a new book was lying on the table just as of old, with an ivory paper-knife thrust in it.
Here a shaggy-eared pony, all skin and bone, was seen approaching us at a foot's pace. Trembling, and drooping its head, it scanned us, as it drew level, with a round black eye, and snorted. Upon that, its rider pushed back a ragged fur cap, glanced warily in our direction, and again sank his head. "The folk of these parts are ugly to look at," softly commented the woman from Orlov.
The owners of the voices I knew to be immigrants from the province of Orlov. I knew them to be so for the reason that I myself had lately been working in company with the male members of the party, and had taken leave of them only yesterday in order that I might set out earlier than they, and, after walking through the night, greet the sun when he should arise above the sea.
"There's no need to be in a hurry over the kitchen arrangements," said Orlov, looking at me coldly. "We must first move into another flat." We had never had cooking done at home nor kept horses, because, as he said, "he did not like disorder about him," and only put up with having Polya and me in his flat from necessity.
Orlov was evidently afraid I should begin talking of the child again, and to turn my attention in another direction, said: "You have probably forgotten your letter by now. But I have kept it. I understand your mood at the time, and, I must own, I respect that letter. 'Damnable cold blood, 'Asiatic, 'coarse laugh' that was charming and characteristic," he went on with an ironical smile.
I am only sorry I can't send a thousand kisses and my very heart by telegraph. Enjoy yourself, my darling. I sent the telegram, and next morning I gave her the receipt. The worst of it was that Orlov had thoughtlessly let Polya, too, into the secret of his deception, telling her to bring his shirts to Sergievsky Street.
In appearance Orlov was a typical Petersburger, with narrow shoulders, a long waist, sunken temples, eyes of an indefinite colour, and scanty, dingy-coloured hair, beard and moustaches. His face had a stale, unpleasant look, though it was studiously cared for. It was particularly unpleasant when he was asleep or lost in thought.
Orlov had preserved a letter of a schoolgirl of fourteen: on her way home from school she had "hooked an officer on the Nevsky," who had, it appears, taken her home with him, and had only let her go late in the evening; and she hastened to write about this to her school friend to share her joy with her.
"I've not seen it; I don't know; but they say that you men begin with housemaids as boys, and get so used to it that you feel no repugnance. I don't know, I don't know, but I have actually read . . .George, of course you are right," she said, going up to Orlov and changing to a caressing and imploring tone. "I really am out of humour to-day. But, you must understand, I can't help it.
You are a man of ideas, and you ought to be working for your ideas and nothing else." "You really take me for quite a different person from what I am," sighed Orlov. "Say simply that you don't want to talk to me. You dislike me, that's all," said Zinaida Fyodorovna through her tears. "Look here, my dear," said Orlov admonishingly, sitting up in his chair.
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