After another month or two the memory of Anna Sergeyevna would become misted over, so it seemed, and only occasionally would he dream of her touching smile – just as he dreamt of others. But more than a month went by, deep winter set in, and he remembered Anna Sergeyevna as vividly as if he had parted from her yesterday. And those memories became even more vivid. Whether he heard in his study, in the quiet of evening, the voices of his children preparing their lessons, or a sentimental song, or an organ in a restaurant, whether the blizzard howled in the stove, everything would suddenly spring to life in his memory: the events on the jetty, that early, misty morning in the mountains, that steamer from Feodosiya and those kisses. For a long time he paced his room, reminiscing and smiling – and then those memories turned into dreams and the past merged in his imagination with what would be. He did not simply dream of Anna Sergeyevna – she followed him everywhere, like a shadow, watching him. When he closed his eyes he saw her as though she were there before him and she seemed prettier, younger, gentler than before. And he considered himself a better person than he had been in Yalta. In the evenings she would look at him from the bookcase, from the fireplace, from a corner; he could hear her breathing, the gentle rustle of her dress. In the street he followed women with his eyes, seeking someone who resembled her.
And now he was tormented by a strong desire to share his memories with someone. But it was impossible to talk about his love with anyone in the house – and there was no one outside it. Certainly not with his tenants or colleagues at the bank! And what was there to discuss? Had he really been in love? Had there been something beautiful, romantic, edifying or even interesting in his relations with Anna Sergeyevna? And so he was forced to talk about love and women in the vaguest terms and no one could guess what he was trying to say. Only his wife raised her dark eyebrows and said:
‘Really, Demetrius! The role of ladies’ man doesn’t suit you one bit …’
One night, as he left the Doctors’ Club with his partner – a civil servant – he was unable to hold back any more and said:
‘If you only knew what an enchanting woman I met in Yalta!’
The civil servant climbed into his sledge and drove off. But then he suddenly turned round and called out:
‘Dmitry Dmitrich!’
‘What?’
‘You were right the other day – the sturgeon was off!’
This trite remark for some reason suddenly nettled Gurov, striking him as degrading and dirty. What barbarous manners, what faces! What meaningless nights, what dismal, unmemorable days! Frenetic card games, gluttony, constant conversations about the same old thing. Those pointless business affairs and perpetual conversations – always on the same theme – were commandeering the best part of his time, his best strength, so that in the end there remained only a limited, humdrum life, just trivial nonsense. And it was impossible to run away, to escape – one might as well be in a lunatic asylum or a convict squad!
Gurov was so exasperated he did not sleep the whole night, and he suffered from a headache the whole day long. And on following nights too he slept badly, sitting up in his bed the whole time thinking, or pacing his room from corner to corner. The children bored him, he didn’t want to go anywhere or talk about anything.
During the Christmas holidays he packed his things and told his wife that he was going to St Petersburg on behalf of a certain young man he wanted to help – and he went to S—. Why? He himself was not sure. But he wanted to see Anna Sergeyevna again, to arrange a meeting – if that were possible.
He arrived at S— in the morning and took the best room in the hotel, where the entire floor was fitted from wall to wall with a carpet the colour of grey army cloth; on the table was an inkstand, grey with dust, in the form of a mounted horseman holding his hat in his uplifted hand and whose head had been broken off.
The porter told him all he needed to know: von Dodderfits (this was how he pronounced von Diederitz) was living on Old Pottery Street, in his own house, not far from the hospital. He lived lavishly, on the grand scale, kept his own horses and was known by everyone in town.
Without hurrying Gurov strolled down Old Pottery Street and found the house. Immediately opposite stretched a long grey fence topped with nails.
‘That fence is enough to make you want to run away’, Gurov thought, looking now at the windows, now at the fence.
It was a holiday, he reflected, and local government offices would be closed – therefore her husband was probably at home … In any event, it would have been tactless to go into the house and embarrass her. But if he were to send a note it would most likely fall into the husband’s hands and this would ruin everything. Best of all was to trust to luck. So he continued walking along the street, by the fence, waiting for his opportunity. He watched how a beggar went through the gates and was set upon by dogs; and then, an hour later, he heard the faint, indistinct sounds of a piano. Anna Sergeyevna must be playing. Suddenly the front door opened and out came some old lady followed by that familiar white Pomeranian. Gurov wanted to call the dog, but his heart suddenly started pounding and he was too excited to remember the dog’s name.
He carried on walking, hating that grey fence more and more. By now he was so irritated that he was convinced Anna Sergeyevna had forgotten him and was perhaps already dallying with someone else – which was only natural with a young woman forced to look at that damned fence from morning to night. He returned to his hotel room and sat on the sofa for a long time, not knowing what to do. Then he had dinner, after which he had a long sleep.
‘How stupid and upsetting it all is!’ he thought as he awoke and peered at the dark windows; it was already evening. ‘Well, now that I’ve had a good sleep what shall I do tonight?’
He sat on the bed that was covered with a cheap, grey hospital-like blanket and in his irritation he mocked himself: ‘So much for ladies with little dogs! So much for holiday adventures … Now I’m stuck in this hole!’
At the railway station that morning his attention had been caught by a poster that advertised in bold lettering the first night of The Geisha. He remembered this now and drove to the theatre.
‘It’s very likely she goes to first nights’, he thought.
The theatre was full and, as in all local theatres, there was a thick haze above the chandeliers; the gallery was noisy and excited. In the first row, before the performance began, the local dandies were standing with their arms crossed behind their backs. And in front, in the Governor’s box, sat the Governor’s daughter sporting a feather boa, while the Governor himself humbly hid behind the portière, so that only his hands were visible. The curtain shook, the orchestra took an age to tune up. All this time the audience were entering and taking their seats. Gurov looked eagerly around him.
And in came Anna Sergeyevna. She sat in the third row and when Gurov looked at her his heart seemed to miss a beat: now it was plain to him that no one in the whole world was closer, dearer and more important to him than she was. That little woman, not remarkable in any way, lost in that provincial crowd, with a vulgar lorgnette in her hand, now filled his whole life, was his sorrow, his joy, the only happiness that he now wished for himself. And to the sounds of that atrocious orchestra, of those wretched fiddlers, he thought how lovely she was. He thought – and he dreamed.
A young man with short side-whiskers, very tall and stooping, entered with Anna Sergeyevna and sat next to her. With every step he shook his head and he seemed to be perpetually bowing. Probably he was the husband whom she had called ‘lackey’ in Yalta in a fit of pique. And indeed, in his lanky figure, in his side-whiskers, in that slight baldness, there was something of a flunkey’s subservience. He had a sickly smile and in his buttonhole there gleamed the badge of some learned society – just like the number on a flunkey’s jacket.