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 Zhizdra 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 golden 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.’