One day I was working in the Governor’s garden, painting a summer house to look like marble. The Governor was out strolling and came into the summer house. Having nothing else to do he started talking to me. I reminded him how once he had ordered me to his office for an interview. He stared into my face for a while, then he made an ‘O’ with his mouth, spread his arms out helplessly and said, ‘I don’t remember!’
I have aged and become taciturn, stiff and stern, and I rarely laugh. People say that I’ve come to resemble Radish, and I bore my workmen with useless moral exhortations.
My ex-wife Mariya Dolzhikov now lives abroad, and her father, the engineer, is building a railroad in some eastern Russian province and buying up estates there. Dr Blagovo is also abroad. Dubechnya has once again passed to Mrs Cheprakov, who bought it back after getting the engineer to cut twenty per cent off the price. Moisey now goes around in a bowler hat. He often comes into town on a racing droshky and stops near the bank. They say he’s bought himself an estate on a mortgage and he’s always inquiring at the bank about Dubechnya, which he intends buying as well. For a long time poor Ivan Cheprakov roamed around the town, doing nothing and drinking heavily. I had tried to fix him up with a job with us and for a while he worked with us, painting roofs and doing some glazing. He even grew to like the work. Like any regular house-painter, he stole linseed oil, asked for tips and got drunk. But he soon grew sick and tired of it and went back to Dubechnya. Later on the lads confessed to me that he had been inciting them to help him kill Moisey at night and rob Mrs Cheprakov.
Father has aged terribly and become round-shouldered. In the evenings he takes a little stroll near his house. I never go and see him.
During the cholera epidemic Prokofy treated the shopkeepers with pepper-brandy and tar, and took money for it. As I later learnt from our newspaper, he was flogged for saying nasty things about doctors in his butcher’s stall. Nikolka, the boy who helped him, died of cholera. Karpovna is still alive and, as ever, loves and fears her Prokofy. Whenever she sees me she shakes her head sadly.
‘You’re finished, you poor devil!’ she says, sighing.
On weekdays I’m usually busy from morning to night. On holidays, when the weather is fine, I pick up my little niece (my sister was expecting a boy, but she had a girl) and walk, taking my time, to the cemetery. There I stand or sit down and gaze for a long time at the grave that is so dear to me, and I tell the little girl that her mother lies there.
Sometimes I meet Anyuta Blagovo at the graveside. We greet one another and stand in silence, or we talk about Cleopatra, about the little girl, and about the sadness of life. Then we leave the cemetery and walk silently – she walks slowly, so that she can stay next to me as long as possible. The little girl, happy and joyful, screws up her eyes in the bright sunlight and laughs as she stretches her small hands out towards me. We stop and together we fondle that dear little girl.
As we enter the town, Anyuta Blagovo becomes agitated and she blushes as she says goodbye and walks on alone, solemn and demure. And no one in that street looking at her now would have thought that only a moment ago she had been walking at my side and had even fondled that little child.
The Lady with the Little Dog
I
People said that there was a new arrival on the Promenade: a lady with a little dog. Dmitry Dmitrich Gurov, who had already spent a fortnight in Yalta1 and who was by now used to the life there, had also begun to take an interest in new arrivals. As he sat on the terrace of Vernet’s restaurant he saw a young, fair-haired woman walking along the Promenade, not very tall and wearing a beret. A white Pomeranian trotted after her.
And then he came across her several times a day in the municipal park and the square. She was always alone, always wearing that beret, always with the white Pomeranian. No one knew who she was and people simply called her ‘The lady with the little dog’.
‘If she’s here without husband or friends,’ Gurov reasoned, ‘then it wouldn’t be a bad idea if I got to know her.’
He was not yet forty, but already he had a twelve-year-old daughter and two schoolboy sons. He had been married off while still quite young, as a second-year student, and now his wife seemed about half as old again as he was. She was a tall, black-browed woman, plain-spoken, pretentious, respectable and – as she was fond of claiming – ‘a thinking woman’. She was an avid reader, followed the latest reforms in spelling, called her husband Demetrius instead of Dmitry. But in secret he considered her not very bright, narrow-minded and unrefined. He was afraid of her and disliked being at home. He had begun deceiving her a long time ago, had frequently been unfaithful – which was probably why he always spoke disparagingly of women and whenever they were discussed in his company he would call them an ‘inferior breed’.
He felt that he had learnt sufficiently from bitter experience to call them by whatever name he liked, yet, for all that, he could not have survived two days without his ‘inferior breed’. He was bored in male company, not very talkative and offhand. But with women he felt free, knowing what to talk to them about and how to behave. Even saying nothing at all to them was easy for him. There was something attractive, elusive in his appearance, in his character – in his whole personality – that appealed to women and lured them to him. He was well aware of this and some power similarly attracted him.
Repeated – and in fact bitter – experience had long taught him that every affair, which at first adds spice and variety to life and seems such a charming, light-hearted adventure, inevitably develops into an enormous, extraordinarily complex problem with respectable people – especially Muscovites, who are so hesitant, so inhibited – until finally the whole situation becomes a real nightmare. But on every new encounter with an interesting woman all this experience was somehow forgotten and he simply wanted to enjoy life – and it all seemed so easy and amusing.
So, late one afternoon, he was dining at an open-air restaurant when the lady in the beret wandered over and sat at the table next to him. Her expression, the way she walked, her clothes, her hairstyle – all this told him that she was a socially respectable, married woman, that she was in Yalta for the first time, alone and bored.
There was a great deal of untruth in all those stories about the laxity of morals in that town and he despised them, knowing that such fictions are invented by people who would willingly have erred – if they’d had the chance. But when the lady seated herself about three paces away from him at the next table, those stories of easy conquests, of trips to the mountains came to mind; and the alluring thought of a swift, fleeting affair, of a romance with a strange woman whose name he didn’t even know, suddenly possessed him.
Gently, he coaxed the dog over and when it came up to him he wagged his finger. The dog growled. Gurov wagged his finger again.
The lady glanced at him and immediately lowered her eyes.
‘He doesn’t bite,’ she said, blushing.
‘May I give him a bone?’ he asked. And when she nodded he said affably:
‘Have you been long in Yalta, madam?’
‘About five days.’
‘I’ve almost survived my second week here.’
There was a brief pause.
‘The time passes quickly, but it’s still so boring here!’ she said, without looking at him.
‘That’s the done thing – to say it’s boring there! Your average tripper who lives very nicely if you please in some backwater like Belyov or Zhizdra2 never gets bored there, but the moment he comes here he says: “Oh, what a bore! Oh, all this dust!” You’d think he’d just breezed in from sunny Granada!’
She laughed. They both carried on eating in silence, like strangers. But after dinner they wandered off together and then there began that inconsequential, light-hearted conversation of people who have no ties, who are contented, who could not care less where they go or what they talk about. As they walked they talked about the unusual light on the sea. The water was the soft, warm colour of lilac and a g
olden strip of moonlight lay across it. They talked about how humid it was after the heat of the day. Gurov told her he was a Muscovite, a graduate in literature but working in a bank. At one time he had trained as an opera singer but had given it up; and he owned two houses in Moscow. From her he learnt that she had grown up in St Petersburg but had got married in S—, where she had been living for the past two years; that she intended staying another month in Yalta, after which her husband – who also needed a break – might possibly come and fetch her. She was quite unable to explain where her husband worked – whether he was with the rural or county council – and this she herself found very funny. And Gurov discovered that her name was Anna Sergeyevna.
Later, back in his hotel room, he thought about her. He was bound to meet her tomorrow, of that there was no doubt. As he went to bed he remembered that she had only recently left boarding-school, that she had been a schoolgirl just like his own daughter – and he remembered how much hesitancy, how much awkwardness there was in her laughter, in the way she talked to a stranger – it must have been the very first time in her life that she had been on her own, in such surroundings, where men followed her, eyed her and spoke to her with one secret aim in mind, which she could hardly fail to guess. He recalled her slender, frail neck, her beautiful grey eyes.
‘Still, there’s something pathetic about her,’ he thought as he fell asleep.
II
A week had passed since their first encounter. It was a holiday. Indoors it was stifling and the wind swept the dust in swirling clouds down the streets, tearing off people’s hats. All day one felt thirsty and Gurov kept going to the restaurant to fetch Anna Sergeyevna cordials or ice-cream. But there was no escaping the heat.
In the evening, when the wind had dropped, they went down to the pier to watch a steamer arrive. Crowds of people were strolling on the landing-stage: they were all there to meet someone and held bunches of flowers. Two distinguishing features of the Yalta smart set caught one’s attention: the older women dressed like young girls and there were lots of generals.
The steamer arrived late – after sunset – owing to rough seas, and she swung about for some time before putting in at the jetty. Anna Sergeyevna peered at the boat and passengers through her lorgnette, as if trying to make out some people she knew, and when she turned to Gurov her eyes were sparkling. She talked a lot; her questions were abrupt and she immediately forgot what she had asked. Then she lost her lorgnette in the crowd.
The smartly dressed crowd dispersed, no more faces were to be seen; the wind had dropped completely and Gurov and Anna Sergeyevna still stood there, as if waiting for someone else to disembark. Anna Sergeyevna was silent now, sniffing her flowers and not looking at Gurov.
‘The weather’s improved a bit, now it’s evening,’ he said. ‘So, where shall we go? How about driving out somewhere?’
She made no reply.
Then he stared at her – and he suddenly embraced her and kissed her lips. He was steeped in the fragrance, the dampness of the flowers and at once he looked around in fright: had anyone seen them?
‘Let’s go to your place,’ he said softly.
And together they walked away, quickly.
Her room was stuffy and smelt of the perfume she had bought in the Japanese shop. Looking at her now Gurov thought: ‘The encounters one has in life!’ He still remembered those carefree, light-hearted women in his past, so happy in their love and grateful to him for their happiness – however short-lived. And he recalled women who, like his wife, made love insincerely, with too much talk, affectedly, hysterically, with an expression that seemed to say that it was neither love nor passion, but something more significant. And he recalled two or three very beautiful, cold women across whose faces there suddenly flashed a predatory expression, a stubborn desire to seize, to snatch from life more than it could provide… and these women were no longer young; they were capricious, irrational, domineering and unintelligent. And when Gurov cooled towards them their beauty aroused hatred in him and the lace on their underclothes seemed like fish scales.
But here there was that same hesitancy, that same discomfiture, that gaucheness of inexperienced youth. And there was an air of embarrassment, as if someone had just knocked at the door. In her own particular, very serious way, Anna Sergeyevna, that lady with the little dog, regarded what had happened just as if it were her downfall. So it seemed – and it was all very weird and out of place. Her features sank and faded, and her long hair hung sadly on each side of her face. She struck a pensive, dejected pose, like the woman taken in adultery in an old-fashioned painting.
‘This is wrong,’ she said. ‘You’ll be the first to lose respect for me now.’
On the table was a water-melon. Gurov cut himself a slice and slowly started eating it. Half an hour, at least, passed in silence.
Anna Sergeyevna looked most touching. She had that air of genuine, pure innocence of a woman with little experience of life. The solitary candle burning on the table barely illuminated her face, but he could see that she was obviously suffering.
‘Why should I lose my respect for you?’ Gurov asked. ‘You don’t know what you’re saying.’
‘May God forgive me!’ she said – and her eyes filled with tears. ‘It’s terrible.’
‘You seem to be defending yourself.’
‘How can I defend myself? I’m a wicked, vile woman. I despise myself and I’m not going to make any excuses. It’s not my husband but myself I’ve deceived. And I don’t mean only just now, but for a long time. My husband’s a fine honest man, but he’s no more than a lackey. What does he do in that office of his? I’ve no idea. But I do know he’s a mere lackey. I was twenty when I married him and dying from curiosity; but I wanted something better. Surely there must be a different kind of life, I told myself. I wanted to live life to the full, to enjoy life… to enjoy it! I was burning with curiosity. You won’t understand this, but I swear that my feelings ran away with me, something was happening to me and there was no holding me back. So I told my husband I was ill and I came here… And ever since I’ve been going around as if intoxicated, like someone demented. So, now I’m a vulgar, worthless woman whom everyone has the right to despise.’
Gurov found all this very boring. He was irritated by her naïve tone, by that sudden, untimely remorse. But for the tears in her eyes he would have thought she was joking or play-acting.
‘I don’t understand,’ he said softly. ‘What is it you want?’
She buried her face on his chest and clung to him.
‘Please, please believe me, I beg you,’ she said. ‘I yearn for a pure, honest life. Sin revolts me. I myself don’t know what I’m doing. Simple folk say: “The devil’s led me astray” – and I can honestly say that the devil’s led me astray.’
‘That’s enough, enough,’ he muttered.
He gazed into her staring, frightened eyes, kissed her and spoke softly and gently, so that gradually she grew calmer and her gaiety returned. They both started laughing.
Later, after they had gone out, there wasn’t a soul to be seen on the Promenade and that town with its cypresses seemed completely dead; but the sea still roared as it broke on the shore. A small launch with its little lamp sleepily glimmering was tossing on the waves.
They took a cab and drove to Oreanda.3
‘I’ve just discovered your name downstairs in the lobby. The board says “von Diederitz”,’ Gurov said. ‘Is your husband German?’
‘No. I think his grandfather was, but he’s Russian.’
In Oreanda they sat on a bench near the church and looked down at the sea without saying a word. Yalta was barely visible through the morning mist; white clouds lay motionless on the mountain tops. Not one leaf stirred on the trees, cicadas chirped, and the monotonous, hollow roar of the sea that reached them from below spoke of peace, of that eternal slumber that awaits us. And so it roared down below when neither Yalta nor Oreanda existed. It was roaring now and would continue its hollow, ind
ifferent booming when we are no more. And in this permanency, in this utter indifference to the life and death of every one of us there perhaps lies hidden a pledge of our eternal salvation, of never-ceasing progress of life upon earth, of the never-ceasing march towards perfection. As he sat there beside that young woman who seemed so beautiful at daybreak, soothed and enchanted at the sight of those magical surroundings – sea, mountains, clouds, wide skies – Gurov reflected that, if one thought hard about it, everything on earth was truly beautiful except those things we ourselves think of and do when we forget the higher aims of existence and our human dignity.
Someone came up – probably a watchman – glanced at them and went away. And even in this little incident there seemed to be something mysterious – and beautiful too. They could see the steamer arriving from Feodosiya,4 illuminated by the sunrise, its lights extinguished.
‘There’s dew on the grass,’ Anna Sergeyevna said after a pause.
‘Yes, it’s time to go back.’
They returned to town.
After this they met on the Promenade at noon every day, had lunch together, dinner together, strolled and admired the sea. She complained that she was sleeping badly, that she had palpitations and she asked him those same questions again, moved by jealousy, or fear that he did not respect her enough. And when they were in the square or municipal gardens, when no one was near, he would suddenly draw her to him and kiss her passionately. This complete idleness, the kisses in broad daylight when they would look around, afraid that someone had seen them, the heat, the smell of the sea and constant glimpses of those smartly dressed, well-fed people, seemed to transform him. He told Anna Sergeyevna how lovely she was, how seductive; he was impatient in his passion and did not leave her side for one moment. But she often became pensive and constantly asked him to admit that he had no respect for her, that he didn’t love her at all and could only see her as a vulgar woman. Almost every day, in the late evening, they would drive out somewhere, to Oreanda or the waterfall.5 The walks they took were a great success and every time they went their impressions were invariably beautiful and majestic.
The Lady With the Little Dog and Other Stories, 1896-1904 Page 29