The lady with the Dog . Anton Chekhov

THE LADY WITH THE DOG

I

IT was said that a new person had appeared on the sea-front: a lady with

a little dog. Dmitri Dmitritch Gurov, who had by then been a fortnight

at Yalta, and so was fairly at home there, had begun to take an interest

in new arrivals. Sitting in Verney's pavilion, he saw, walking on the

sea-front, a fair-haired young lady of medium height, wearing a _béret_;

a white Pomeranian dog was running behind her.

And afterwards he met her in the public gardens and in the square

several times a day. She was walking alone, always wearing the same

_béret_, and always with the same white dog; no one knew who she was,

and every one called her simply "the lady with the dog."

"If she is here alone without a husband or friends, it wouldn't be amiss

to make her acquaintance," Gurov reflected.

He was under forty, but he had a daughter already twelve years old, and

two sons at school. He had been married young, when he was a student in

his second year, and by now his wife seemed half as old again as he. She

was a tall, erect woman with dark eyebrows, staid and dignified, and, as

she said of herself, intellectual. She read a great deal, used phonetic

spelling, called her husband, not Dmitri, but Dimitri, and he secretly

considered her unintelligent, narrow, inelegant, was afraid of her, and

did not like to be at home. He had begun being unfaithful to her long

ago--had been unfaithful to her often, and, probably on that account,

almost always spoke ill of women, and when they were talked about in his

presence, used to call them "the lower race."

It seemed to him that he had been so schooled by bitter experience that

he might call them what he liked, and yet he could not get on for two

days together without "the lower race." In the society of men he was

bored and not himself, with them he was cold and uncommunicative; but

when he was in the company of women he felt free, and knew what to say

to them and how to behave; and he was at ease with them even when he was

silent. In his appearance, in his character, in his whole nature, there

was something attractive and elusive which allured women and disposed

them in his favour; he knew that, and some force seemed to draw him,

too, to them.

Experience often repeated, truly bitter experience, had taught him long

ago that with decent people, especially Moscow people--always slow to

move and irresolute--every intimacy, which at first so agreeably

diversifies life and appears a light and charming adventure, inevitably

grows into a regular problem of extreme intricacy, and in the long run

the situation becomes unbearable. But at every fresh meeting with an

interesting woman this experience seemed to slip out of his memory, and

he was eager for life, and everything seemed simple and amusing.

One evening he was dining in the gardens, and the lady in the _béret_

came up slowly to take the next table. Her expression, her gait, her

dress, and the way she did her hair told him that she was a lady, that

she was married, that she was in Yalta for the first time and alone, and

that she was dull there.... The stories told of the immorality in such

places as Yalta are to a great extent untrue; he despised them, and knew

that such stories were for the most part made up by persons who would

themselves have been glad to sin if they had been able; but when the

lady sat down at the next table three paces from him, he remembered

these tales of easy conquests, of trips to the mountains, and the

tempting thought of a swift, fleeting love affair, a romance with an

unknown woman, whose name he did not know, suddenly took possession of

him.

He beckoned coaxingly to the Pomeranian, and when the dog came up to him

he shook his finger at it. The Pomeranian growled: Gurov shook his

finger at it again.

The lady looked at him and at once dropped her eyes.

"He doesn't bite," she said, and blushed.

"May I give him a bone?" he asked; and when she nodded he asked

courteously, "Have you been long in Yalta?"

"Five days."

"And I have already dragged out a fortnight here."

There was a brief silence.

"Time goes fast, and yet it is so dull here!" she said, not looking at

him.

"That's only the fashion to say it is dull here. A provincial will live

in Belyov or Zhidra and not be dull, and when he comes here it's 'Oh,

the dulness! Oh, the dust!' One would think he came from Grenada."

She laughed. Then both continued eating in silence, like strangers, but

after dinner they walked side by side; and there sprang up between them

the light jesting conversation of people who are free and satisfied, to

whom it does not matter where they go or what they talk about. They

walked and talked of the strange light on the sea: the water was of a

soft warm lilac hue, and there was a golden streak from the moon upon

it. They talked of how sultry it was after a hot day. Gurov told her

that he came from Moscow, that he had taken his degree in Arts, but had

a post in a bank; that he had trained as an opera-singer, but had given

it up, that he owned two houses in Moscow.... And from her he learnt

that she had grown up in Petersburg, but had lived in S---- since her

marriage two years before, that she was staying another month in Yalta,

and that her husband, who needed a holiday too, might perhaps come and

fetch her. She was not sure whether her husband had a post in a Crown

Department or under the Provincial Council--and was amused by her own

ignorance. And Gurov learnt, too, that she was called Anna Sergeyevna.

Afterwards he thought about her in his room at the hotel--thought she

would certainly meet him next day; it would be sure to happen. As he got

into bed he thought how lately she had been a girl at school, doing

lessons like his own daughter; he recalled the diffidence, the

angularity, that was still manifest in her laugh and her manner of

talking with a stranger. This must have been the first time in her life

she had been alone in surroundings in which she was followed, looked at,

and spoken to merely from a secret motive which she could hardly fail to

guess. He recalled her slender, delicate neck, her lovely grey eyes.

"There's something pathetic about her, anyway," he thought, and fell

asleep.

II

A week had passed since they had made acquaintance. It was a holiday. It

was sultry indoors, while in the street the wind whirled the dust round

and round, and blew people's hats off. It was a thirsty day, and Gurov

often went into the pavilion, and pressed Anna Sergeyevna to have syrup

and water or an ice. One did not know what to do with oneself.

In the evening when the wind had dropped a little, they went out on the

groyne to see the steamer come in. There were a great many people

walking about the harbour; they had gathered to welcome some one,

bringing bouquets. And two peculiarities of a well-dressed Yalta crowd

were very conspicuous: the elderly ladies were dressed like young ones,

and there were great numbers of generals.

Owing to the roughness of the sea, the steamer arrived late, after the

sun had set, and it was a long time turning about before it reached the

groyne. Anna Sergeyevna looked through her lorgnette at the steamer and

the passengers as though looking for acquaintances, and when she turned

to Gurov her eyes were shining. She talked a great deal and asked

disconnected questions, forgetting next moment what she had asked; then

she dropped her lorgnette in the crush.

The festive crowd began to disperse; it was too dark to see people's

faces. The wind had completely dropped, but Gurov and Anna Sergeyevna

still stood as though waiting to see some one else come from the

steamer. Anna Sergeyevna was silent now, and sniffed the flowers without

looking at Gurov.

"The weather is better this evening," he said. "Where shall we go now?

Shall we drive somewhere?"

She made no answer.

Then he looked at her intently, and all at once put his arm round her

and kissed her on the lips, and breathed in the moisture and the

fragrance of the flowers; and he immediately looked round him, anxiously

wondering whether any one had seen them.

"Let us go to your hotel," he said softly. And both walked quickly.

The room was close and smelt of the scent she had bought at the Japanese

shop. Gurov looked at her and thought: "What different people one meets

in the world!" From the past he preserved memories of careless,

good-natured women, who loved cheerfully and were grateful to him for

the happiness he gave them, however brief it might be; and of women like

his wife who loved without any genuine feeling, with superfluous

phrases, affectedly, hysterically, with an expression that suggested

that it was not love nor passion, but something more significant; and of

two or three others, very beautiful, cold women, on whose faces he had

caught a glimpse of a rapacious expression--an obstinate desire to

snatch from life more than it could give, and these were capricious,

unreflecting, domineering, unintelligent women not in their first youth,

and when Gurov grew cold to them their beauty excited his hatred, and

the lace on their linen seemed to him like scales.

But in this case there was still the diffidence, the angularity of

inexperienced youth, an awkward feeling; and there was a sense of

consternation as though some one had suddenly knocked at the door. The

attitude of Anna Sergeyevna--"the lady with the dog"--to what had

happened was somehow peculiar, very grave, as though it were her

fall--so it seemed, and it was strange and inappropriate. Her face

dropped and faded, and on both sides of it her long hair hung down

mournfully; she mused in a dejected attitude like "the woman who was a

sinner" in an old-fashioned picture.

"It's wrong," she said. "You will be the first to despise me now."

There was a water-melon on the table. Gurov cut himself a slice and

began eating it without haste. There followed at least half an hour of

silence.

Anna Sergeyevna was touching; there was about her the purity of a good,

simple woman who had seen little of life. The solitary candle burning on

the table threw a faint light on her face, yet it was clear that she was

very unhappy.

"How could I despise you?" asked Gurov. "You don't know what you are

saying."

"God forgive me," she said, and her eyes filled with tears. "It's

awful."

"You seem to feel you need to be forgiven."

"Forgiven? No. I am a bad, low woman; I despise myself and don't attempt

to justify myself. It's not my husband but myself I have deceived. And

not only just now; I have been deceiving myself for a long time. My

husband may be a good, honest man, but he is a flunkey! I don't know

what he does there, what his work is, but I know he is a flunkey! I was

twenty when I was married to him. I have been tormented by curiosity; I

wanted something better. 'There must be a different sort of life,' I

said to myself. I wanted to live! To live, to live!... I was fired by

curiosity ... you don't understand it, but, I swear to God, I could not

control myself; something happened to me: I could not be restrained. I

told my husband I was ill, and came here.... And here I have been

walking about as though I were dazed, like a mad creature; ... and now I

have become a vulgar, contemptible woman whom any one may despise."

Gurov felt bored already, listening to her. He was irritated by the

naïve tone, by this remorse, so unexpected and inopportune; but for the

tears in her eyes, he might have thought she was jesting or playing a

part.

"I don't understand," he said softly. "What is it you want?"

She hid her face on his breast and pressed close to him.

"Believe me, believe me, I beseech you ..." she said. "I love a pure,

honest life, and sin is loathsome to me. I don't know what I am doing.

Simple people say: 'The Evil One has beguiled me.' And I may say of

myself now that the Evil One has beguiled me."

"Hush, hush!..." he muttered.

He looked at her fixed, scared eyes, kissed her, talked softly and

affectionately, and by degrees she was comforted, and her gaiety

returned; they both began laughing.

Afterwards when they went out there was not a soul on the sea-front. The

town with its cypresses had quite a deathlike air, but the sea still

broke noisily on the shore; a single barge was rocking on the waves, and

a lantern was blinking sleepily on it.

They found a cab and drove to Oreanda.

"I found out your surname in the hall just now: it was written on the

board--Von Diderits," said Gurov. "Is your husband a German?"

"No; I believe his grandfather was a German, but he is an Orthodox

Russian himself."

At Oreanda they sat on a seat not far from the church, looked down at

the sea, and were silent. Yalta was hardly visible through the morning

mist; white clouds stood motionless on the mountain-tops. The leaves did

not stir on the trees, grasshoppers chirruped, and the monotonous hollow

sound of the sea rising up from below, spoke of the peace, of the

eternal sleep awaiting us. So it must have sounded when there was no

Yalta, no Oreanda here; so it sounds now, and it will sound as

indifferently and monotonously when we are all no more. And in this

constancy, in this complete indifference to the life and death of each

of us, there lies hid, perhaps, a pledge of our eternal salvation, of

the unceasing movement of life upon earth, of unceasing progress towards

perfection. Sitting beside a young woman who in the dawn seemed so

lovely, soothed and spellbound in these magical surroundings--the sea,

mountains, clouds, the open sky--Gurov thought how in reality everything

is beautiful in this world when one reflects: everything except what we

think or do ourselves when we forget our human dignity and the higher

aims of our existence.

A man walked up to them--probably a keeper--looked at them and walked

away. And this detail seemed mysterious and beautiful, too. They saw a

steamer come from Theodosia, with its lights out in the glow of dawn.

"There is dew on the grass," said Anna Sergeyevna, after a silence.

"Yes. It's time to go home."

They went back to the town.

Then they met every day at twelve o'clock on the sea-front, lunched and

dined together, went for walks, admired the sea. She complained that she

slept badly, that her heart throbbed violently; asked the same

questions, troubled now by jealousy and now by the fear that he did not

respect her sufficiently. And often in the square or gardens, when there

was no one near them, he suddenly drew her to him and kissed her

passionately. Complete idleness, these kisses in broad daylight while he

looked round in dread of some one's seeing them, the heat, the smell of

the sea, and the continual passing to and fro before him of idle,

well-dressed, well-fed people, made a new man of him; he told Anna

Sergeyevna how beautiful she was, how fascinating. He was impatiently

passionate, he would not move a step away from her, while she was often

pensive and continually urged him to confess that he did not respect

her, did not love her in the least, and thought of her as nothing but a

common woman. Rather late almost every evening they drove somewhere out

of town, to Oreanda or to the waterfall; and the expedition was always a

success, the scenery invariably impressed them as grand and beautiful.

They were expecting her husband to come, but a letter came from him,

saying that there was something wrong with his eyes, and he entreated

his wife to come home as quickly as possible. Anna Sergeyevna made haste

to go.

"It's a good thing I am going away," she said to Gurov. "It's the finger

of destiny!"

She went by coach and he went with her. They were driving the whole day.

When she had got into a compartment of the express, and when the second

bell had rung, she said:

"Let me look at you once more ... look at you once again. That's right."

She did not shed tears, but was so sad that she seemed ill, and her face

was quivering.

"I shall remember you ... think of you," she said. "God be with you; be

happy. Don't remember evil against me. We are parting forever--it must

be so, for we ought never to have met. Well, God be with you."

The train moved off rapidly, its lights soon vanished from sight, and a

minute later there was no sound of it, as though everything had

conspired together to end as quickly as possible that sweet delirium,

that madness. Left alone on the platform, and gazing into the dark

distance, Gurov listened to the chirrup of the grasshoppers and the hum

of the telegraph wires, feeling as though he had only just waked up. And

he thought, musing, that there had been another episode or adventure in

his life, and it, too, was at an end, and nothing was left of it but a

memory.... He was moved, sad, and conscious of a slight remorse. This

young woman whom he would never meet again had not been happy with him;

he was genuinely warm and affectionate with her, but yet in his manner,

his tone, and his caresses there had been a shade of light irony, the

coarse condescension of a happy man who was, besides, almost twice her

age. All the time she had called him kind, exceptional, lofty; obviously

he had seemed to her different from what he really was, so he had

unintentionally deceived her....

Here at the station was already a scent of autumn; it was a cold

evening.

"It's time for me to go north," thought Gurov as he left the platform.

"High time!"

III

At home in Moscow everything was in its winter routine; the stoves were

heated, and in the morning it was still dark when the children were

having breakfast and getting ready for school, and the nurse would light

the lamp for a short time. The frosts had begun already. When the first

snow has fallen, on the first day of sledge-driving it is pleasant to

see the white earth, the white roofs, to draw soft, delicious breath,

and the season brings back the days of one's youth. The old limes and

birches, white with hoar-frost, have a good-natured expression; they are

nearer to one's heart than cypresses and palms, and near them one

doesn't want to be thinking of the sea and the mountains.

Gurov was Moscow born; he arrived in Moscow on a fine frosty day, and

when he put on his fur coat and warm gloves, and walked along Petrovka,

and when on Saturday evening he heard the ringing of the bells, his

recent trip and the places he had seen lost all charm for him. Little by

little he became absorbed in Moscow life, greedily read three newspapers

a day, and declared he did not read the Moscow papers on principle! He

already felt a longing to go to restaurants, clubs, dinner-parties,

anniversary celebrations, and he felt flattered at entertaining

distinguished lawyers and artists, and at playing cards with a professor

at the doctors' club. He could already eat a whole plateful of salt fish

and cabbage.

In another month, he fancied, the image of Anna Sergeyevna would be

shrouded in a mist in his memory, and only from time to time would visit

him in his dreams with a touching smile as others did. But more than a

month passed, real winter had come, and everything was still clear in

his memory as though he had parted with Anna Sergeyevna only the day

before. And his memories glowed more and more vividly. When in the

evening stillness he heard from his study the voices of his children,

preparing their lessons, or when he listened to a song or the organ at

the restaurant, or the storm howled in the chimney, suddenly everything

would rise up in his memory: what had happened on the groyne, and the

early morning with the mist on the mountains, and the steamer coming

from Theodosia, and the kisses. He would pace a long time about his

room, remembering it all and smiling; then his memories passed into

dreams, and in his fancy the past was mingled with what was to come.

Anna Sergeyevna did not visit him in dreams, but followed him about

everywhere like a shadow and haunted him. When he shut his eyes he saw

her as though she were living before him, and she seemed to him

lovelier, younger, tenderer than she was; and he imagined himself finer

than he had been in Yalta. In the evenings she peeped out at him from

the bookcase, from the fireplace, from the corner--he heard her

breathing, the caressing rustle of her dress. In the street he watched

the women, looking for some one like her.

He was tormented by an intense desire to confide his memories to some

one. But in his home it was impossible to talk of his love, and he had

no one outside; he could not talk to his tenants nor to any one at the

bank. And what had he to talk of? Had he been in love, then? Had there

been anything beautiful, poetical, or edifying or simply interesting in

his relations with Anna Sergeyevna? And there was nothing for him but to

talk vaguely of love, of woman, and no one guessed what it meant; only

his wife twitched her black eyebrows, and said:

"The part of a lady-killer does not suit you at all, Dimitri."

One evening, coming out of the doctors' club with an official with whom

he had been playing cards, he could not resist saying:

"If only you knew what a fascinating woman I made the acquaintance of in

Yalta!"

The official got into his sledge and was driving away, but turned

suddenly and shouted:

"Dmitri Dmitritch!"

"What?"

"You were right this evening: the sturgeon was a bit too strong!"

These words, so ordinary, for some reason moved Gurov to indignation,

and struck him as degrading and unclean. What savage manners, what

people! What senseless nights, what uninteresting, uneventful days! The

rage for card-playing, the gluttony, the drunkenness, the continual talk

always about the same thing. Useless pursuits and conversations always

about the same things absorb the better part of one's time, the better

part of one's strength, and in the end there is left a life grovelling

and curtailed, worthless and trivial, and there is no escaping or

getting away from it--just as though one were in a madhouse or a prison.

Gurov did not sleep all night, and was filled with indignation. And he

had a headache all next day. And the next night he slept badly; he sat

up in bed, thinking, or paced up and down his room. He was sick of his

children, sick of the bank; he had no desire to go anywhere or to talk

of anything.

In the holidays in December he prepared for a journey, and told his wife

he was going to Petersburg to do something in the interests of a young

friend--and he set off for S----. What for? He did not very well know

himself. He wanted to see Anna Sergeyevna and to talk with her--to

arrange a meeting, if possible.

He reached S---- in the morning, and took the best room at the hotel, in

which the floor was covered with grey army cloth, and on the table was

an inkstand, grey with dust and adorned with a figure on horseback, with

its hat in its hand and its head broken off. The hotel porter gave him

the necessary information; Von Diderits lived in a house of his own in

Old Gontcharny Street--it was not far from the hotel: he was rich and

lived in good style, and had his own horses; every one in the town knew

him. The porter pronounced the name "Dridirits."

Gurov went without haste to Old Gontcharny Street and found the house.

Just opposite the house stretched a long grey fence adorned with nails.

"One would run away from a fence like that," thought Gurov, looking from

the fence to the windows of the house and back again.

He considered: to-day was a holiday, and the husband would probably be

at home. And in any case it would be tactless to go into the house and

upset her. If he were to send her a note it might fall into her

husband's hands, and then it might ruin everything. The best thing was

to trust to chance. And he kept walking up and down the street by the

fence, waiting for the chance. He saw a beggar go in at the gate and

dogs fly at him; then an hour later he heard a piano, and the sounds

were faint and indistinct. Probably it was Anna Sergeyevna playing. The

front door suddenly opened, and an old woman came out, followed by the

familiar white Pomeranian. Gurov was on the point of calling to the dog,

but his heart began beating violently, and in his excitement he could

not remember the dog's name.

He walked up and down, and loathed the grey fence more and more, and by

now he thought irritably that Anna Sergeyevna had forgotten him, and was

perhaps already amusing herself with some one else, and that that was

very natural in a young woman who had nothing to look at from morning

till night but that confounded fence. He went back to his hotel room and

sat for a long while on the sofa, not knowing what to do, then he had

dinner and a long nap.

"How stupid and worrying it is!" he thought when he woke and looked at

the dark windows: it was already evening. "Here I've had a good sleep

for some reason. What shall I do in the night?"

He sat on the bed, which was covered by a cheap grey blanket, such as

one sees in hospitals, and he taunted himself in his vexation:

"So much for the lady with the dog ... so much for the adventure....

You're in a nice fix...."

That morning at the station a poster in large letters had caught his

eye. "The Geisha" was to be performed for the first time. He thought of

this and went to the theatre.

"It's quite possible she may go to the first performance," he thought.

The theatre was full. As in all provincial theatres, there was a fog

above the chandelier, the gallery was noisy and restless; in the front

row the local dandies were standing up before the beginning of the

performance, with their hands behind them; in the Governor's box the

Governor's daughter, wearing a boa, was sitting in the front seat, while

the Governor himself lurked modestly behind the curtain with only his

hands visible; the orchestra was a long time tuning up; the stage

curtain swayed. All the time the audience were coming in and taking

their seats Gurov looked at them eagerly.

Anna Sergeyevna, too, came in. She sat down in the third row, and when

Gurov looked at her his heart contracted, and he understood clearly that

for him there was in the whole world no creature so near, so precious,

and so important to him; she, this little woman, in no way remarkable,

lost in a provincial crowd, with a vulgar lorgnette in her hand, filled

his whole life now, was his sorrow and his joy, the one happiness that

he now desired for himself, and to the sounds of the inferior orchestra,

of the wretched provincial violins, he thought how lovely she was. He

thought and dreamed.

A young man with small side-whiskers, tall and stooping, came in with

Anna Sergeyevna and sat down beside her; he bent his head at every step

and seemed to be continually bowing. Most likely this was the husband

whom at Yalta, in a rush of bitter feeling, she had called a flunkey.

And there really was in his long figure, his side-whiskers, and the

small bald patch on his head, something of the flunkey's obsequiousness;

his smile was sugary, and in his buttonhole there was some badge of

distinction like the number on a waiter.

During the first interval the husband went away to smoke; she remained

alone in her stall. Gurov, who was sitting in the stalls, too, went up

to her and said in a trembling voice, with a forced smile:

"Good-evening."

She glanced at him and turned pale, then glanced again with horror,

unable to believe her eyes, and tightly gripped the fan and the

lorgnette in her hands, evidently struggling with herself not to faint.

Both were silent. She was sitting, he was standing, frightened by her

confusion and not venturing to sit down beside her. The violins and the

flute began tuning up. He felt suddenly frightened; it seemed as though

all the people in the boxes were looking at them. She got up and went

quickly to the door; he followed her, and both walked senselessly along

passages, and up and down stairs, and figures in legal, scholastic, and

civil service uniforms, all wearing badges, flitted before their eyes.

They caught glimpses of ladies, of fur coats hanging on pegs; the

draughts blew on them, bringing a smell of stale tobacco. And Gurov,

whose heart was beating violently, thought:

"Oh, heavens! Why are these people here and this orchestra!..."

And at that instant he recalled how when he had seen Anna Sergeyevna off

at the station he had thought that everything was over and they would

never meet again. But how far they were still from the end!

On the narrow, gloomy staircase over which was written "To the

Amphitheatre," she stopped.

"How you have frightened me!" she said, breathing hard, still pale and

overwhelmed. "Oh, how you have frightened me! I am half dead. Why have

you come? Why?"

"But do understand, Anna, do understand ..." he said hastily in a low

voice. "I entreat you to understand...."

She looked at him with dread, with entreaty, with love; she looked at

him intently, to keep his features more distinctly in her memory.

"I am so unhappy," she went on, not heeding him. "I have thought of

nothing but you all the time; I live only in the thought of you. And I

wanted to forget, to forget you; but why, oh, why, have you come?"

On the landing above them two schoolboys were smoking and looking down,

but that was nothing to Gurov; he drew Anna Sergeyevna to him, and began

kissing her face, her cheeks, and her hands.

"What are you doing, what are you doing!" she cried in horror, pushing

him away. "We are mad. Go away to-day; go away at once.... I beseech you

by all that is sacred, I implore you.... There are people coming this

way!"

Some one was coming up the stairs.

"You must go away," Anna Sergeyevna went on in a whisper. "Do you hear,

Dmitri Dmitritch? I will come and see you in Moscow. I have never been

happy; I am miserable now, and I never, never shall be happy, never!

Don't make me suffer still more! I swear I'll come to Moscow. But now

let us part. My precious, good, dear one, we must part!"

She pressed his hand and began rapidly going downstairs, looking round

at him, and from her eyes he could see that she really was unhappy.

Gurov stood for a little while, listened, then, when all sound had died

away, he found his coat and left the theatre.

IV

And Anna Sergeyevna began coming to see him in Moscow. Once in two or

three months she left S----, telling her husband that she was going to

consult a doctor about an internal complaint--and her husband believed

her, and did not believe her. In Moscow she stayed at the Slaviansky

Bazaar hotel, and at once sent a man in a red cap to Gurov. Gurov went

to see her, and no one in Moscow knew of it.

Once he was going to see her in this way on a winter morning (the

messenger had come the evening before when he was out). With him walked

his daughter, whom he wanted to take to school: it was on the way. Snow

was falling in big wet flakes.

"It's three degrees above freezing-point, and yet it is snowing," said

Gurov to his daughter. "The thaw is only on the surface of the earth;

there is quite a different temperature at a greater height in the

atmosphere."

"And why are there no thunderstorms in the winter, father?"

He explained that, too. He talked, thinking all the while that he was

going to see her, and no living soul knew of it, and probably never

would know. He had two lives: one, open, seen and known by all who cared

to know, full of relative truth and of relative falsehood, exactly like

the lives of his friends and acquaintances; and another life running its

course in secret. And through some strange, perhaps accidental,

conjunction of circumstances, everything that was essential, of interest

and of value to him, everything in which he was sincere and did not

deceive himself, everything that made the kernel of his life, was hidden

from other people; and all that was false in him, the sheath in which he

hid himself to conceal the truth--such, for instance, as his work in the

bank, his discussions at the club, his "lower race," his presence with

his wife at anniversary festivities--all that was open. And he judged of

others by himself, not believing in what he saw, and always believing

that every man had his real, most interesting life under the cover of

secrecy and under the cover of night. All personal life rested on

secrecy, and possibly it was partly on that account that civilised man

was so nervously anxious that personal privacy should be respected.

After leaving his daughter at school, Gurov went on to the Slaviansky

Bazaar. He took off his fur coat below, went upstairs, and softly

knocked at the door. Anna Sergeyevna, wearing his favourite grey dress,

exhausted by the journey and the suspense, had been expecting him since

the evening before. She was pale; she looked at him, and did not smile,

and he had hardly come in when she fell on his breast. Their kiss was

slow and prolonged, as though they had not met for two years.

"Well, how are you getting on there?" he asked. "What news?"

"Wait; I'll tell you directly.... I can't talk."

She could not speak; she was crying. She turned away from him, and

pressed her handkerchief to her eyes.

"Let her have her cry out. I'll sit down and wait," he thought, and he

sat down in an arm-chair.

Then he rang and asked for tea to be brought him, and while he drank his

tea she remained standing at the window with her back to him. She was

crying from emotion, from the miserable consciousness that their life

was so hard for them; they could only meet in secret, hiding themselves

from people, like thieves! Was not their life shattered?

"Come, do stop!" he said.

It was evident to him that this love of theirs would not soon be over,

that he could not see the end of it. Anna Sergeyevna grew more and more

attached to him. She adored him, and it was unthinkable to say to her

that it was bound to have an end some day; besides, she would not have

believed it!

He went up to her and took her by the shoulders to say something

affectionate and cheering, and at that moment he saw himself in the

looking-glass.

His hair was already beginning to turn grey. And it seemed strange to

him that he had grown so much older, so much plainer during the last few

years. The shoulders on which his hands rested were warm and quivering.

He felt compassion for this life, still so warm and lovely, but probably

already not far from beginning to fade and wither like his own. Why did

she love him so much? He always seemed to women different from what he

was, and they loved in him not himself, but the man created by their

imagination, whom they had been eagerly seeking all their lives; and

afterwards, when they noticed their mistake, they loved him all the

same. And not one of them had been happy with him. Time passed, he had

made their acquaintance, got on with them, parted, but he had never once

loved; it was anything you like, but not love.

And only now when his head was grey he had fallen properly, really in

love--for the first time in his life.

Anna Sergeyevna and he loved each other like people very close and akin,

like husband and wife, like tender friends; it seemed to them that fate

itself had meant them for one another, and they could not understand why

he had a wife and she a husband; and it was as though they were a pair

of birds of passage, caught and forced to live in different cages. They

forgave each other for what they were ashamed of in their past, they

forgave everything in the present, and felt that this love of theirs had

changed them both.

In moments of depression in the past he had comforted himself with any

arguments that came into his mind, but now he no longer cared for

arguments; he felt profound compassion, he wanted to be sincere and

tender....

"Don't cry, my darling," he said. "You've had your cry; that's

enough.... Let us talk now, let us think of some plan."

Then they spent a long while taking counsel together, talked of how to

avoid the necessity for secrecy, for deception, for living in different

towns and not seeing each other for long at a time. How could they be

free from this intolerable bondage?

"How? How?" he asked, clutching his head. "How?"

And it seemed as though in a little while the solution would be found,

and then a new and splendid life would begin; and it was clear to both

of them that they had still a long, long road before them, and that the

most complicated and difficult part of it was only just beginning.