Towards Christmas he prepared for a journey. He told his wife that he was going to St. Petersburg on a certain young man's business—but he actually went to the town where Anne lived. Why? He didn't really know himself. He wanted to see her, speak to her—make an asi^^tion if he could.
He reached the town one morning and put up at a hotel, in the 'best' room with wall-to-wall carpeting in coarse field-grey material. On the table stood an inkstand, grey with dust and shaped as a horse- man holding his hat up in onc hand and minus a head. The porter' told him what he needed to know: von Diederitz livcd in Old Pottery Street in his own house near the hotel. He did things in style, kept his own horses, was known to everyone in to\wn. The porter pronounced the name as 'Drearydits'. Gurov sauntered off to Old Pottery Street, found the house. Immediately facing it was a long, grey fence cro\wned with nails: 'a fence to run away from', thoughr Gurov, looking from windows to fence and back.
Local government offices were closed today, so the husband was probably at home, Gurov reckoned. In any case it would be tactless to go into the house and create a disturbancc. Ifhe sent a notc, though, it might fall into the husband's hands and ruin everything. Better trust to chancc. He paced the street ncar the fence, awaiting this chance. He saw a beggar go through the gate, saw him set upon by dogs. An hour later he heard the faint, muffled sound of a piano—that must be Anne playing. Suddenly the front door opened, and out came an old woman with the familiar white Pomeranian running after her. Gurov wanted to call the dog, but his heart suddenly raced and he was too excited to remember its name.
He paced about, loathing that grey fence more and more. In his irritation, he fancied that Anne had forgotten him and might be amusing herself with another man—what else could be expected of a young woman compelled to contemplate this confounded fence morning, noon ar.d night? He went back'to his room, sat on the sofa for hours not knowing what to do, then lunched and dozed for hours.
'It's all so stupid and distressing,' he thought, waking up and seeing the dark windows—it was already evening. 'Now I've had a good sleep for some reason, but what shall I do tonight?'
He sat on the bed—it was covered with a cheap, grey hospital blanket.
'So much for your ladies with dogs!' said he in petulant self- mockery. 'So much for your holiday romances—now you're stuck in this dump.'
In the station that morning his eye had been caught by a poster in bold lettering advertising the opening of The Geisha. Recalling this, he drove to the thcatre, reflecting that sheveryprobably attended first nights.
The theatre was full. As usual in provincial theatres a mist hung abovc the chandclicr, while thc gallcry was restive and rowdy. In the first row beforc the performancc bcgan stood thc local gallants, hands clasped behind their backs. In the Governor's box, in front, sat that worthy's daughtcr complete with feather boa, while the Governor himself lurked modestly behind a por/iere, only his hands showing. The curtain shook, the orchestra tuned up protractedly. As the audience came in and took its seats, Gurov peered frantically around.
In came Anne. She sat down in the third row, and when Gurov glimpsed her his heart seemed to miss a beat. He saw clearly, now, that she was nearer, dearcr, more important to him than anyone in the whole world. Lost in the provincial crowd, this very ordinary little woman carrying her vulgar lorgnette now absorbed his whole being. She was his grief, his joy—the only happiness he wanted, now. To the strains of that abominable orchestril with its atrocious, tasteless fiddling he thought how lovely she was . . . thought and brooded.
A young man with short dundrearies, very tall, round-shouldered, hCld come in with Anne and sat down beside her. He kept bobbing his head as if making obeisance with every step hc took. It must be the husband whom, in that bitter outburst back in Yalta, she had dubbed a 'worm'. His lanky figure, his side-whiskers, his small bald patch . .. there actually was something menial and flunkey-like about them. He gave an ingratiating smile, the emblem of somc learned society glinting in his buttonhote like a hotel servant's number.
The husband went for a smoke in the first interval, while she remained seated. Gurov—his seat was also in the stalls—approached her. His voice trembling, forcing a smile; he wished her good evening.
She glanced at him, she blenched. Then she looked again—aghast, not believing her eyes, crushing fan and lorgnette together in her hands in an obvious effort to prevent herself from fainting. Neither spoke. She sat, he remained standing—alarmed by her discomfiture, not venturing to sit do^ beside her. Fiddles and flute started tuning up, and he suddenly panicked: from all the boxes eyes seemed to be staring at them. Then she stood up and quickly made for the exit, while he followed, both walking at random along corridors, up and do^ stairways, glimpsing men in the uniforms of the courts, the schools and the administration of cro^ lands, all wearing their decorations. There were glimpses of ladies and fur coats on pegs. A draught enveloped them with the smell of cigarette ends.
'Oh God—why all these people, this orchertra?' wondered Gurov, his hean pounding.
Suddenly he recalled thc evening when he had seen Anne off at the station, when he had told himself that it was all over and that they would never meet again. How far they were now, though, from any ending!
On a narrow, gloomy staircase labelled entrance to circle she stopped.
'How you did scare me,' she paited, still pale and dazed. 'I nearly died, you scared me so. Why, why, why are you here?'
'Try and understand, Anne,' he said in a rapid undertone. 'Under- stand, I implore you '
She looked at him—fearfully, pleadingly, lovingly. She stared, try- ing to fix his features in her memory.
'I'm so miscrable,' she went on, not hearing him. 'I've thought only of you all this time, my thoughts of you have kept me alive. Oh, I did so want to forget you—why, why, why are you here?'
On a landing higher up two schoolboys were smoking and looking down, but Gurov did not care. He pulled Anne to him, kissed her face, cheek, hands.
'Whatever are you doing?' she askcd—horrified, pushing him from her. 'Wc must bc out of our minds. You must go away today—leave this very instant, I implore you, I beg you in the name of all that is holy. Someonc's coming.'
Somcone indecd was coming upstairs.
'You must leave,' Anne went on in a whisper. 'Do you hear me, Gurov? I'll visit you in Moscow. I've never becn happy, I'm unhappy now, and I shall never, never, never be happy. So don't add to my sufferings. I'll come to Moscow,.I swear it, but we must part now. We must say good-byc, my good, kind darling.'
She pressed his hand and went quickly downstairs, looking back at him, and he could see from her eyes that she really was unhappy. Gurov waited a little, cocked an ear and, when all was quiet, found the peg with his coat and left the theatre.
IV
Anne took to visiting him in Moscow. Once every two or three months shc would leave her home town, telling her husband that she was going to consult a professor about a female complaint. The husband neither believed nor disbelieved her. In Moscow she would put up at the Slav Fair Hotcl, and at once scnd a red-capped messenger to Gurov. Gurov would visit her hotel, and no one in Moscow knew anything about it.
It thus chanced that he was on his way to see her one winter morning —hcr messengcr had called on the previous evening, but had not found him at home. He was walking with his daughter, wanting to take her to her school, which was on his way. There was a heavy do^pour of sleet.
'It's three degrees above zero, yet look at the sleet,' said Gurov to his daughtcr. 'But it's only the ground which is warm, you see—the temperature in the upper strata of the atmosphere is quite different.'