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.
‘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, indifferent 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, 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. The walks they took were a great success and every time they went their impressions were invariably beautiful and majestic.
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 belclass="underline"
‘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, 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 Moscowlife, 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.