Her husband was expected to arrive soon, but a letter came in which he told her that he had eye trouble and begged his wife to return as soon as possible. Anna Sergeyevna hurried.
‘It’s a good thing I’m leaving,’ Anna Sergeyevna said. ‘It’s fate.’
She went by carriage and he rode with her. The drive took nearly a whole day. When she took her seat in the express train she said after the second departure bell:
‘Let me look at you again… one last look. There…’
She was not crying, but she looked sad, as if she were ill, and her face was trembling.
‘I shall think of you… I shall remember you…’ she said. ‘God bless you – and take care of yourself. Don’t think badly of me. This is our final farewell – it must be, since we never should have met… Well, God bless you.’
The train swiftly drew out of the station, its lights soon vanished and a minute later its noise had died away, as though everything had deliberately conspired to put a speedy end to that sweet abandon, to that madness. Alone on the platform, gazing into the murky distance, Gurov listened to the chirring of the grasshoppers and the humming of the telegraph wires, and he felt that he had just woken up. So, this was just another adventure or event in his life, he reflected, and that too was over now, leaving only the memory… He was deeply moved and sad, and he felt a slight twinge of regret: that young woman, whom he would never see again, had not been happy with him, had she? He had been kind and affectionate, yet in his attitude, his tone and caresses, there had been a hint of casual mockery, of the rather coarse arrogance of a victorious male who, besides anything else, was twice her age. The whole time she had called him kind, exceptional, high-minded: obviously she had not seen him in his true colours, therefore he must have been unintentionally deceiving her…
Here at the station there was already a breath of autumn in the air and the evening was cool.
‘It’s time I went north too’, Gurov thought, leaving the platform. ‘It’s time!’
III
Back home in Moscow it was already like winter; the stoves had been lit; it was dark in the mornings when the children were getting ready for school and having their breakfast, so Nanny would briefly light the lamp. The frosts had set in. When the first snow falls, on the first day of sleigh-rides, it is so delightful to see the white ground and the white roofs. The air is so soft and so marvellous to breathe – and at such times one remembers the days of one’s youth. The old limes and birches, white with hoarfrost, have a welcoming look – they are closer to one’s heart than cypresses or palms and beside them one has no desire to think of mountains and sea.
Gurov was a Muscovite and he returned to Moscow on a fine, frosty day. When he put on his fur coat and warm gloves, and strolled down the Petrovka,6 when he heard the sound of bells on Saturday evening, that recent trip and the places he had visited lost all their enchantment. Gradually he immersed himself in Moscow life, hungrily reading three newspapers a day whilst claiming that he didn’t read any Moscow papers, on principle. Once again he could not resist the temptation of restaurants, clubs, dinner parties, anniversary celebrations; he was flattered that famous lawyers and artists visited him and that he played cards with a professor at the Doctors’ Club. He could polish off a whole portion of Moscow hotpot straight from the pan.
After another month or two the memory of Anna Sergeyevna would become misted over, so it seemed, and only occasionally would he dream of her touching smile – just as he dreamt of others. But more than a month went by, deep winter set in, and he remembered Anna Sergeyevna as vividly as if he had parted from her yesterday. And those memories became even more vivid. Whether he heard in his study, in the quiet of evening, the voices of his children preparing their lessons, or a sentimental song, or an organ in a restaurant, whether the blizzard howled in the stove, everything would suddenly spring to life in his memory: the events on the jetty, that early, misty morning in the mountains, that steamer from Feodosiya and those kisses. For a long time he paced his room, reminiscing and smiling – and then those memories turned into dreams and the past merged in his imagination with what would be. He did not simply dream of Anna Sergeyevna – she followed him everywhere, like a shadow, watching him. When he closed his eyes he saw her as though she were there before him and she seemed prettier, younger, gentler than before. And he considered himself a better person than he had been in Yalta. In the evenings she would look at him from the bookcase, from the fireplace, from a corner; he could hear her breathing, the gentle rustle of her dress. In the street he followed women with his eyes, seeking someone who resembled her.
And now he was tormented by a strong desire to share his memories with someone. But it was impossible to talk about his love with anyone in the house – and there was no one outside it. Certainly not with his tenants or colleagues at the bank! And what was there to discuss? Had he really been in love? Had there been something beautiful, romantic, edifying or even interesting in his relations with Anna Sergeyevna? And so he was forced to talk about love and women in the vaguest terms and no one could guess what he was trying to say. Only his wife raised her dark eyebrows and said:
‘Really, Demetrius! The role of ladies’ man doesn’t suit you one bit…’
One night, as he left the Doctors’ Club with his partner – a civil servant – he was unable to hold back any more and said:
‘If you only knew what an enchanting woman I met in Yalta!’
The civil servant climbed into his sledge and drove off. But then he suddenly turned round and called out:
‘Dmitry Dmitrich!’
‘What?’
‘You were right the other day – the sturgeon was off!’
This trite remark for some reason suddenly nettled Gurov, striking him as degrading and dirty. What barbarous manners, what faces! What meaningless nights, what dismal, unmemorable days! Frenetic card games, gluttony, constant conversations about the same old thing. Those pointless business affairs and perpetual conversations – always on the same theme – were commandeering the best part of his time, his best strength, so that in the end there remained only a limited, humdrum life, just trivial nonsense. And it was impossible to run away, to escape – one might as well be in a lunatic asylum or a convict squad!
Gurov was so exasperated he did not sleep the whole night, and he suffered from a headache the whole day long. And on following nights too he slept badly, sitting up in his bed the whole time thinking, or pacing his room from corner to corner. The children bored him, he didn’t want to go anywhere or talk about anything.
During the Christmas holidays he packed his things and told his wife that he was going to St Petersburg on behalf of a certain young man he wanted to help – and he went to S—. Why? He himself was not sure. But he wanted to see Anna Sergeyevna again, to arrange a meeting – if that were possible.
He arrived at S— in the morning and took the best room in the hotel, where the entire floor was fitted from wall to wall with a carpet the colour of grey army cloth; on the table was an inkstand, grey with dust, in the form of a mounted horseman holding his hat in his uplifted hand and whose head had been broken off.
The porter told him all he needed to know: von Dodderfits (this was how he pronounced von Diederitz) was living on Old Pottery Street, in his own house, not far from the hospital. He lived lavishly, on the grand scale, kept his own horses and was known by everyone in town.
Without hurrying Gurov strolled down Old Pottery Street and found the house. Immediately opposite stretched a long grey fence topped with nails.
‘That fence is enough to make you want to run away’, Gurov thought, looking now at the windows, now at the fence.
It was a holiday, he reflected, and local government offices would be closed – therefore her husband was probably at home… In any event, it would have been tactless to go into the house and embarrass her. But if he were to send a note it would most likely fall into the husband’s hands and this would ruin everything. Bes
t of all was to trust to luck. So he continued walking along the street, by the fence, waiting for his opportunity. He watched how a beggar went through the gates and was set upon by dogs; and then, an hour later, he heard the faint, indistinct sounds of a piano. Anna Sergeyevna must be playing. Suddenly the front door opened and out came some old lady followed by that familiar white Pomeranian. Gurov wanted to call the dog, but his heart suddenly started pounding and he was too excited to remember the dog’s name.
He carried on walking, hating that grey fence more and more. By now he was so irritated that he was convinced Anna Sergeyevna had forgotten him and was perhaps already dallying with someone else – which was only natural with a young woman forced to look at that damned fence from morning to night. He returned to his hotel room and sat on the sofa for a long time, not knowing what to do. Then he had dinner, after which he had a long sleep.
‘How stupid and upsetting it all is!’ he thought as he awoke and peered at the dark windows; it was already evening. ‘Well, now that I’ve had a good sleep what shall I do tonight?’
He sat on the bed that was covered with a cheap, grey hospital-like blanket and in his irritation he mocked himself: ‘So much for ladies with little dogs! So much for holiday adventures… Now I’m stuck in this hole!’
At the railway station that morning his attention had been caught by a poster that advertised in bold lettering the first night of The Geisha.7 He remembered this now and drove to the theatre.
‘It’s very likely she goes to first nights’, he thought.
The theatre was full and, as in all local theatres, there was a thick haze above the chandeliers; the gallery was noisy and excited. In the first row, before the performance began, the local dandies were standing with their arms crossed behind their backs. And in front, in the Governor’s box, sat the Governor’s daughter sporting a feather boa, while the Governor himself humbly hid behind the portière, so that only his hands were visible. The curtain shook, the orchestra took an age to tune up. All this time the audience were entering and taking their seats. Gurov looked eagerly around him.
And in came Anna Sergeyevna. She sat in the third row and when Gurov looked at her his heart seemed to miss a beat: now it was plain to him that no one in the whole world was closer, dearer and more important to him than she was. That little woman, not remarkable in any way, lost in that provincial crowd, with a vulgar lorgnette in her hand, now filled his whole life, was his sorrow, his joy, the only happiness that he now wished for himself. And to the sounds of that atrocious orchestra, of those wretched fiddlers, he thought how lovely she was. He thought – and he dreamed.
A young man with short side-whiskers, very tall and stooping, entered with Anna Sergeyevna and sat next to her. With every step he shook his head and he seemed to be perpetually bowing. Probably he was the husband whom she had called ‘lackey’ in Yalta in a fit of pique. And indeed, in his lanky figure, in his side-whiskers, in that slight baldness, there was something of a flunkey’s subservience. He had a sickly smile and in his buttonhole there gleamed the badge of some learned society – just like the number on a flunkey’s jacket.
In the first interval the husband went out for a smoke, while she remained in her seat. Gurov, who was also in the stalls, went up to her and forced a smile as he said in a trembling voice:
‘Good evening!’
She looked at him and turned pale. Then she looked again, was horrified and could not believe her eyes, tightly clasping her fan and lorgnette and obviously trying hard to stop herself fainting. Neither said a word. She sat there, he stood, alarmed at her embarrassment and not daring to sit next to her. The fiddles and flutes began to tune up and suddenly they felt terrified – it seemed they were being scrutinized from every box. But then she stood up and quickly went towards the exit. He followed her and they both walked aimlessly along the corridors, up and down staircases, caught glimpses of people in all kinds of uniforms – lawyers, teachers, administrators of crown estates, all of them wearing insignia. They glimpsed ladies, fur coats on hangers; a cold draught brought the smell of cigarette ends. Gurov’s heart was throbbing. ‘God in heaven!’ he thought. ‘Why these people, this orchestra?’
And at that moment he suddenly remembered saying to himself, after he had seen Anna Sergeyevna off at the station that evening, that it was all over and that they would never see one another again. But how far they still were from the end!
On the narrow, gloomy staircase with the sign ‘Entrance to Circle’ she stopped.
‘What a fright you gave me!’ she exclaimed, breathing heavily, still pale and stunned. ‘Oh, what a fright you gave me. I’m barely alive! Why have you come? Why?’
‘Please understand, Anna, please understand,’ he said hurriedly in an undertone. ‘I beg you, please understand!’
She looked at him in fear, in supplication – and with love, staring at his face to fix his features more firmly in her mind.
‘It’s such hell for me!’ she went on without listening to him. ‘The whole time I’ve thought only of you. I’ve existed only by thinking about you. And I wanted to forget, forget. But why have you come?’
On a small landing above them two schoolboys were smoking and looking down, but Gurov didn’t care. He drew Anna Sergeyevna to him and started kissing her face, her cheeks, her arms.
‘What are you doing? What are you doing?’ she cried out in horror, pushing him away. ‘We’ve both gone out of our minds! You must leave tonight… you must go now… I implore you, by all that’s holy, I beg you… Someone’s coming…!’
Someone was coming up the staircase.
‘You must go,’ Anna Sergeyevna continued, whispering. ‘Do you hear, Dmitry Dmitrich? I’ll come and see you in Moscow. I’ve never been happy, I’m unhappy now and I shall never, never be happy! Never! Don’t make me suffer even more! I swear I’ll come to Moscow. But now we must say goodbye… My dear, kind darling, we must part!’
She pressed his hand and swiftly went downstairs, constantly looking back at him – and he could see from her eyes that she really was unhappy. Gurov stayed a while longer, listening hard. And then, when all was quiet, he found his peg and left the theatre.
IV
And Anna Sergeyevna began to visit him in Moscow. Two or three times a month she left S—, telling her husband that she was going to consult a professor about some women’s complaint – and her husband neither believed nor disbelieved her. In Moscow she stayed at the Slav Fair Hotel,8 and the moment she arrived she would send a messenger with a red cap over to Gurov. He would go to her hotel and no one in Moscow knew a thing.
One winter’s morning he went to see her as usual (the messenger had called the previous evening but he had been out). With him walked his daughter, whom he wanted to take to school, as it was on the way. A thick wet snow was falling.
‘It’s three degrees above zero, yet it’s snowing,’ Gurov told his daughter. ‘But it’s only warm on the surface of the earth, the temperature’s quite different in the upper layers of the atmosphere.’
‘Papa, why isn’t there thunder in winter?’
And he explained this too, conscious as he spoke that here he was on his way to an assignation, that not a soul knew about it and that probably no one would ever know. He was leading a double life: one was undisguised, plain for all to see and known to everyone who needed to know, full of conventional truths and conventional deception, identical to the lives of his friends and acquaintances; and another which went on in secret. And by some strange, possibly fortuitous chain of circumstances, everything that was important, interesting and necessary for him, where he behaved sincerely and did not deceive himself and which was the very essence of his life – that was conducted in complete secrecy; whereas all that was false about him, the front behind which he hid in order to conceal the truth – for instance, his work at the bank, those quarrels at the club, his notions of an ‘inferior breed’, his attending anniversary celebrations with his wife – that was plain for all to
see. And he judged others by himself, disbelieving what he saw, invariably assuming that everyone’s true, most interesting life was carried on under the cloak of secrecy, under the cover of night, as it were. The private, personal life of everyone is grounded in secrecy and this perhaps partly explains why civilized man fusses so neurotically over having this personal secrecy respected.
After taking his daughter to school, Gurov went to the Slav Fair Hotel. He took off his fur coat downstairs, went up and gently tapped at the door. Anna Sergeyevna, wearing his favourite grey dress, exhausted by the journey and by the wait, had been expecting him since the previous evening. She was pale and looked at him unsmiling; but the moment he entered the room she flung herself on his chest. Their kiss was long and lingering, as though they had not seen one another for two years.
‘Well, how are things?’ he asked. ‘What’s the news?’
‘Wait, I’ll tell you in a moment. But not now…’
She was unable to speak for crying. Turning away from him she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes.
‘Well, let her have a good cry… I’ll sit down in the meantime’, he thought as he sat in the armchair.
Then he rang and ordered some tea. After he had drunk it she was still standing there, facing the window. She wept from the mournful realization that their lives had turned out so sadly. They were meeting in secret, hiding from others, like thieves! Surely their lives were ruined?
‘Please stop crying!’ he said.
Now he could see quite clearly that this was no short-lived affair – and it was impossible to say when it would finish. Anna Sergeyevna had become even more attached to him, she adored him and it would have been unthinkable of him to tell her that some time all this had to come to an end. And she would not have believed him even if he had.
The Lady With the Little Dog and Other Stories, 1896-1904 Page 30
