erated. Vices which are punished
by our legal code had not prevented Diogenes from being a philosopher
and a teacher. Caesar and Cicero were profligates and at the same
time great men. Cato in his old age married a young girl, and yet
he was regarded as a great ascetic and a pillar of morality.

At three or four o'clock the party broke up or they went off together
out of town, or to Officers' Street, to the house of a certain
Varvara Ossipovna, while I retired to my quarters, and was kept
awake a long while by coughing and headache.

IV

Three weeks after I entered Orlov's service--it was Sunday morning,
I remember--somebody rang the bell. It was not yet eleven, and
Orlov was still asleep. I went to open the door. You can imagine
my astonishment when I found a lady in a veil standing at the door
on the landing.

"Is Georgy Ivanitch up?" she asked.

From her voice I recognised Zinaida Fyodorovna, to whom I had taken
letters in Znamensky Street. I don't remember whether I had time
or self-possession to answer her--I was taken aback at seeing
her. And, indeed, she did not need my answer. In a flash she had
darted by me, and, filling the hall with the fragrance of her
perfume, which I remember to this day, she went on, and her footsteps
died away. For at least half an hour afterwards I heard nothing.
But again some one rang. This time it was a smartly dressed girl,
who looked like a maid in a wealthy family, accompanied by our house
porter. Both were out of breath, carrying two trunks and a dress-basket.

"These are for Zinaida Fyodorovna," said the girl.

And she went down without saying another word. All this was mysterious,
and made Polya, who had a deep admiration for the pranks of her
betters, smile slyly to herself; she looked as though she would
like to say, "So that's what we're up to," and she walked about the
whole time on tiptoe. At last we heard footsteps; Zinaida Fyodorovna
came quickly into the hall, and seeing me at the door of my room,
said:

"Stepan, take Georgy Ivanitch his things."

When I went in to Orlov with his clothes and his boots, he was
sitting on the bed with his feet on the bearskin rug. There was an
air of embarrassment about his whole figure. He did not notice me,
and my menial opinion did not interest him; he was evidently perturbed
and embarrassed before himself, before his inner eye. He dressed,
washed, and used his combs and brushes silently and deliberately,
as though allowin