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 longing3 to go to restaurants, clubs, dinner-parties, anniversary celebrations, and he felt flattered at entertaining distinguished4 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 shrouded5 in a mist in his memory, and only from time to time would visit him in his dreams with a touching6 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 vividly7. 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 mingled8 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 caressing9 rustle10 of her dress. In the street he watched the women, looking for some one like her.
He was tormented11 by an intense desire to confide12 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 tenants13 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, poetical14, or edifying15 or simply interesting in his relations with Anna Sergeyevna? And there was nothing for him but to talk vaguely16 of love, of woman, and no one guessed what it meant; only his wife twitched17 her black eyebrows18, 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 savage19 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 grovelling20 and curtailed21, 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 adorned22 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 loathed23 the grey fence more and more, and by now he thought irritably24 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 taunted25 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 provincial26 theatres, there was a fog above the chandelier, the gallery was noisy and restless; in the front row the local dandies were standing27 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 lurked28 modestly behind the curtain with only his hands visible; the orchestra was a long time tuning29 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 remarkable30, 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 bent31 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 obsequiousness32; his smile was sugary, and in his buttonhole there was some badge of distinction like the number on a waiter.
During the first interval33 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 flute34 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, scholastic35, and civil service uniforms, all wearing badges, flitted before their eyes. They caught glimpses of ladies, of fur coats hanging on pegs36; the draughts37 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 entreat38 you to understand...."
She looked at him with dread39, with entreaty40, with love; she looked at him intently, to keep his features more distinctly in her memory.
"I am so unhappy," she went on, not heeding41 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 beseech42 you by all that is sacred, I implore43 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 miserable44 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.
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1
sledge
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| n.雪橇，大锤；v.用雪橇搬运，坐雪橇往 | |
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2
cypresses
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| n.柏属植物，柏树( cypress的名词复数 ) | |
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3
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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4
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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5
shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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6
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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7
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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8
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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9
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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10
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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11
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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12
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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13
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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14
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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15
edifying
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| adj.有教训意味的，教训性的，有益的v.开导，启发( edify的现在分词 ) | |
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16
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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17
twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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18
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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19
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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20
grovelling
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| adj.卑下的，奴颜婢膝的v.卑躬屈节，奴颜婢膝( grovel的现在分词 )；趴 | |
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21
curtailed
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| v.截断，缩短( curtail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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22
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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23
loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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24
irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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25
taunted
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| 嘲讽( taunt的过去式和过去分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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26
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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27
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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28
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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29
tuning
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| n.调谐，调整，调音v.调音( tune的现在分词 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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30
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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31
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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32
obsequiousness
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| 媚骨 | |
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33
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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34
flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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35
scholastic
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| adj.学校的，学院的，学术上的 | |
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36
pegs
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| n.衣夹( peg的名词复数 )；挂钉；系帐篷的桩；弦钮v.用夹子或钉子固定( peg的第三人称单数 )；使固定在某水平 | |
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37
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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38
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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39
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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40
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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41
heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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42
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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43
implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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44
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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