The Lady with the Little Dog

The Lady with the Little Dog by Anton Chekhov

Translated from Russian by Kroum Kroumov

1

There was rumor that a new person had appeared on the waterfront: a lady with a little dog. Dimity Dmitrich Gurov, already two weeks in Yalta and grown accustomed to it, became interested in fresh faces. Sitting in the Verne pavilion, he saw a young lady walking on the waterside; blond and not tall, wearing a beret. Behind her ran a small Pomeranian dog.

He came across her in the botanical gardens and public parks several times throughout the day. She walked alone, always wearing the same beret, and with the white Pomeranian; nobody knew who she was, and they simply called her the lady with the little dog.

-If she is here without a husband and friends, - imagined Gurov, - it wouldn’t be amiss to get acquainted. 

He was not yet forty, but he already had a twelve-year-old daughter and two sons in high school. They married him off early, while still a student in the second year of university, and his wife now seemed twice as old as him. She was a tall woman with dark eyebrows, erect, haughty, solid, who referred to herself as an intellectual. She read a lot and didn’t use the hard sign when writing letters; her husband, she called Dimitry and not Dmitry. In his mind he saw her as dull, narrow-minded, ungraceful. He feared her and didn’t like being home. He had been cheating for a long time, and often. For these reasons he almost always spoke badly about women, and when others would talk about them in his presence, he would refer to them as the inferior race.

He thought he had learned plenty from bitter experience, and that he had the right to call them as he pleased, but despite this he couldn’t live two days without this ‘inferior race’. Male society bored him and he did not feel like himself there; around men he was taciturn and cold, but in the company of women he felt free and knew what to say and how to behave. It was even comfortable to be silent in their presence. In his appearance, personality, in his entire nature, there was something attractive, elusive, something that drew women to him, that tempted them. He knew this, and some kind of mysterious force also enticed him towards them. 

Repeated experiences, or rather bitter experience, had long ago taught him that every intimacy, which in the beginning refreshes life with such delight and appears as a sweet airy adventure, in decent people, especially Muscovites, who are slow to rise and indecisive, would inescapably grow to become a complete chore, something very complicated, and that the situation would end up becoming burdensome. But every fresh encounter with an interesting woman would somehow cause this experience to slip from his memory, and he wanted to live, and it seemed so simple and pleasant. 

And once, while having lunch in the garden, the lady with the beret sauntered over to sit in the chair beside. Her expression, walk, skirt, and hairstyle revealed she was from decent society, married, that she was in Yalta for the first time and that she felt bored and alone… Gossip about local indecencies abounds with falsehoods, he despised it and knew that the people who spread it would commit plenty of sins if given the opportunity. But when the lady sat in the neighbouring chair, three steps away, he was haunted by stories, and ideas of easy romantic conquests, excursions to the mountains, tempting thoughts of rapid fleeting relationships, of a romance with an anonymous woman, unknown by first or family name.

He lured the Pomeranian forward, and when it neared, he shook his finger at it. The dog grumbled. Gurov again shook his finger at the dog. 

The lady looked at him and turned. 

-He doesn’t bite, - she said, blushing. 

-Can I give him a bone?–And when she had nodded in affirmation, he asked her with courtesy: - Have you been in Yalta long?

-Five days. 

-And I’m already nearing my second week. 

They remained silent for a time. 

-Time passes quickly, but this place is such a bore!–She said, not looking at him.

-It has become customary to say this place is boring. A person who is happy living somewhere in Belev or Zhizdra, but then here they complain, Oh, it’s so boring! Oh, the dust! You would think they came from Granada. 

She laughed. Then they both continued eating without saying a word, like strangers. But after lunch they walked together, and a light-hearted, pleasant conversation started. Like a dialogue carried out by two free, content people, unconcerned about where they are going or the topic. They chatted about how strange the sea looked illuminated; the lilac-coloured water, so soft and warm, and how on its surface trailed a golden streak emanating from the moon. They talked about the stuffy air after a muggy day. Gurov related he was from Moscow, that he had studied philology, but was now working in a bank; how he had been training to sing for a private opera, but had given up, and now owned two houses in Moscow… He learned she had grown up in Petersburg, but married in S. where she had already lived for two years; she would be in Yalta for another month, and perhaps later her husband would come, who also wanted to vacation. She could in no way explain where her husband worked, whether it was in the provincial administration or the provincial Zemsko administration, and to her this was funny. And Gurov also learned that her name was Anna Sergeevna. 

Later, alone in his room, he thought of her, more precisely, that tomorrow she would most likely meet him. That is how it should be. Going to sleep, he remembered that recently she was a student, studying like his daughter was now; how much bashfulness and awkwardness there was in her laughter when talking to a stranger. He thought this must be her first time alone in such a setting, where people walk behind looking at her, talking to her with one intention, impossible not to guess. And he remembered her slender, thin neck, her pretty grey eyes.  

-There’s something pitiable about her, despite everything, - he thought, falling asleep.

2

A week passed after their acquaintance. It was a festive day. The rooms were stuffy, and on the streets the wind swirled dust and knocked off hats. Thirst abounded and Gurov would often enter the pavilion, offering Anna Sergeevna everything from water to syrup to ice cream. There was no escaping the heat. 

In the evening, when the weather settled, they went to the pier to watch a steamer arriving. Many people were there, holding flowers, waiting. And here, two well-dressed Yalta crowds struck the eye with their peculiarities: older ladies dressed up as fancy as the younger ones, and the large number of generals. 

An agitated sea caused the late arrival of the steamer, as it had to make several turns before docking well past sunset. Anna Sergeevna watched the steamer and its passengers through her lorgnette, as if searching for somebody she knew, and her eyes sparkled every time she turned towards Gurov. She spoke a lot, and her answers were hasty, forgetful. Then she lost her lorgnette in the crowd. 

The well-dressed crowd dispersed. One could no longer make out faces. The wind had settled, but Gurov and Anna Sergeevna remained, as if to see if anyone else would exit the steamer. Anna Sergeevna was now silent, and she smelled the flowers, not looking at Gurov. 

-This evening weather is much better, - he said. - Where shall we go now? Should we go somewhere? 

She didn’t reply. 

Then he looked directly at her, embraced, and kissed her lips. The scent of moisture emanating from the flowers flooded him, and right away he looked about, wondering if anyone had seen them. 

-Let’s go to your place…- he whispered. 

And they hurried on. 

Her room was stuffy. It smelled of perfumes she had bought in the Japanese store. Gurov, now looking at her, thought: - Oh, the amazing encounters we have in life! - His memories stored reminiscences of carefree, good-natured women, joyous for the love, and thankful for the happiness he had given them despite the brevity of the encounters. Others, for example, such as his wife, whose love lacked all sincerity, and who started unnecessary, pretentious conversations, spoke hysterically and with such expressions, as if it was neither love nor passion, but something even more important. He also remembered two or three beautiful but cold women, whose faces would turn predatory, with an obstinate desire to seize, to take more from life than they could give; these were not youthful women, they were capricious, lacking all reason, domineering and dull, and when Gurov would turn cold towards them, their beauty would turn to spite, and the lace of their lingerie became fish scales. 

And here was all the cowardice, the awkwardness of unexperienced youth, that discomforting feeling; he felt alarmed, as if someone had knocked on the door without expectation. Anna Sergeevna, that lady with the little dog, reacted oddly to what had occurred, was very serious, talking as if this was her fall, and it appeared strange and inopportune. Her features drooped and became pale, and her hair hung on the sides of her face, and in this dismal pose she thought, like a female sinner in old paintings. 

-This is awful, - she said. - You no longer respect me.

On the table, there was a watermelon. Gurov cut a piece and ate it without hurry. At the end, they had spent a half hour in utter silence. 

The sight of Anna Sergeevna was touching. She exuded the genuine purity of a naïve, youthful woman. The lone candle burning on the table barely illuminated her face, but it was easy to see that she was suffering from a heavy heart. 

-What could make me lose respect for you? - Gurov questioned. - You yourself don’t know what you are saying. 

-May God forgive me! - she said, and her eyes filled with tears. -This is awful. 

-It seems like you are only trying to justify yourself. 

-How could I? Foolish base woman. I despise myself, and I cannot even think of justification. I didn’t cheat on my husband, but I cheated myself. And not just now, but for a long time I’ve been lying to myself. My husband might be an honest, honourable man, but he is nothing but a lackey. I don’t know what he does there, how he works, I only know that he is a lackey. I got married when I was twenty years old, curiosity drew me in; I wanted something better. There must be another kind of life, I said to myself. I wanted to live! To live and live… I was burning with curiosity... You would not understand this, but I swear to God, I could no longer control myself. I wanted to do something with my life. There was no way to stop me. I told my husband I was sick, and then I came here… And I walked around this place, as if having inhaled poisonous fumes, like a madwoman... And now I have become a degenerate, worthless woman, one that anyone would despise. 

Gurov had already grown tired of listening. Her naïve tone and the unexpected out-of-place confession annoyed him. If not for the tears, he would have thought she was joking or role playing. 

-I don’t understand, - he whispered, - what is it you want? 

She hid her face in his chest, pressing tight. 

-Believe me, believe me, I beg of you… - she spoke. 

-I love living an honest, spotless life, and sin disgusts me. I don’t know what I’m doing. Common people say the devil leads astray. And I can say that the evil one has led me astray. 

-True, true… - he mumbled. 

He looked at her, at her motionless frightened eyes, kissed her and spoke in a subdued, gentle tone. She calmed down, her gaiety returned, and they both began laughing. 

Later, when they went outside, there was nobody on the waterside. The city, with its cypress trees, looked lifeless, but the sea still made noise and splashed against the shore. One long boat drifted on the waves with the lighthouse light shimmering above it. 

They found a cab and rode to Oreanda. 

-I just saw your family name written on the lobby board downstairs: Von Diderich, - said Gurov. - Is your husband German? 

-No. His grandfather was German, it seems, but he himself is Orthodox. 

They sat on a bench in Oreanda, near a church. They looked down at the sea without saying a word. Yalta was barely visible through the morning fog. White clouds stood motionless above the mountaintops. Tree leaves did not stir, cicadas buzzed, and the monotone, muffled noise of the sea, emanating from the depths, spoke of repose, of the eternal sleep awaiting us all. The noise from below was there, the same now as when there was no Yalta, or Oreanda, and it will continue, monotone and muffled, when we are no longer here. And in this permanence, in this complete indifference towards life and death, in all of us, perhaps, lies concealed the covenant of our eternal salvation, the continual movement of life on earth, the continual striving towards perfection. Sitting next to a young woman, flowering in the prime of her life, who was so beautiful, and within the tranquil and charming atmosphere of this fairy tale setting with the sea, mountain, clouds, and wide sky, Gurov thought of how actually, when one thinks about it, everything in this world is marvellous, all of it, and only when we ourselves think and act do we end up forgetting the higher aims of existence and our human dignity. 

Some person came near, perhaps a guard. He looked at them and walked away. And this small triviality appeared so mysterious and beautiful. A ship was approaching in the distance, illuminated by the colours of dawn, with its lights already extinguished. 

-There’s dew on the grass - said Anna Sergeevna, breaking the silence. 

-Yes. It’s time to head home. 

They returned to town. 

Then they met every afternoon on the pier, had lunch together, dined, walked, and admired the sea. She complained of poor sleep and that her heart beat from anxiety, and she always asked the same questions, worrying about jealousy or fear that he did not respect her enough. Often in the town square or in the garden, when no one was near, he would embrace her with passionate kisses. The complete leisure, these midday kisses with cautious glances of suspicion that someone might see them, the smell of the sea, the constant glimpses of idlers walking along, the elegant satisfied people. All this seemed to rejuvenate him. He would tell her she was beautiful, that she was alluring. Gurov was impatient with passion, always at her side, while she was often pensive and would ask him to admit that he didn’t respect her, that he didn’t love her and that he saw her as nothing but a base woman. Almost every day at late evening, they would go out of town, either to Oreanda or the waterfall. The trips would turn out well. The impressions left were always wonderful, sublime. 

They expected her husband to come. But one day a letter arrived from him, in which he said he was suffering from an eye ailment, and asked his wife to return home instead. Anna Sergeevna quickened her pace. 

-It’s good that I’m leaving, - she said to Gurov. -This is fate itself. 

She ordered a carriage, and he accompanied her. They rode all day. When she sat in her wagon on the express train, and when the second bell rang, she said: 

-Let me look at you one more time… One more time. Just like that. 

She didn’t cry; she looked sad, as if ill, and her face quivered. 

-I will think of you… remember you, - she said. - May God be with you. Think no evil. We are parting forever, so it must be, since we should have never met. But may God be with you. 

The train rode away quickly. Soon its lights disappeared, and a little thereafter the noise faded, as if everything conspired to end this sweet escape, this lunacy. Standing alone on the platform and staring at the black expanse, Gurov listened to the chirping of the crickets and the buzzing of the telegraph like a person recently awakened. And he thought how all this was nothing but another escapade or adventure, and it too, like all the rest had ended, leaving behind only memories… This touched him, and he felt sorrowful, and somewhat regretful. But had this young woman, whom he would never meet again, not been happy with him? He was kind and warm with her, but still when speaking to her, his tone and endearments filtered through a slight shade of a sneer, the brutish arrogance of triumphant men twice her age. The entire time she called him kind, unique, sublime; while now he appeared not as he was, meaning that he had been deceiving her without intent…

On the platform, the air smelled like autumn; the night was chilly. 

“It’s time for me to return north, - thought Gurov, leaving the platform. - It’s time!”

3

Home in Moscow everything was already wintry, stoves kindled, and in the mornings when the children began preparing for school and drank tea, while still dark, the nanny would start a fire for a while. The cold fronts had set in. With the first snow on the first sledge riding day, it is delightful to see the white ground and rooftops, to inhale the soft pleasant air, to remember one’s childhood. The old lime-trees and birches, white from hoar-frost, remind one of something pleasant. They are closer to the heart than cypresses or palm trees, and in their presence one no longer wants to think about mountains or the sea. 

Gurov was a Muscovite. He came back to Moscow on a pleasant frosty day, and wearing a fur coat and warm gloves he walked on Petrovka Street, and on Saturday evening the ringing of the bells erased all fascination remaining from his recent journey and location. Little by little the Muscovite lifestyle absorbed him: he would now with thirst read up to three newspapers daily, and still claim, as principle, he did not read Moscow newspapers. Restaurants, clubs, lunch invitations, and anniversaries were already drawing him in, and the visits paid him by famous lawyers and artists, along with the games of cards played with professors at the University clubs, flattered him. Now he could eat a whole portion of Selianka from the pan…

In a few months, it seemed to him, Anna Sergeevna would become enshrouded in the fogs of memory, and she would appear less frequently in his dreams with her sad smile, just as it had been with the others. But a month passed. Deep winter had already set in, yet in his mind everything remained vivid, as if he had parted from Anna Sergeevna only yesterday. The recollections flared up even stronger. When the voices of his children preparing for their lessons would sound in his study, when hearing romantic songs, or the organ in restaurants, and even the howling of snowstorms in the chimney, everything resurrected in his memory: everything that happened on the pier, the early mornings with the misty mountains, and the steamer from Feodosia, and the kisses. He would pace in his room, reminiscing and smiling for lengthy periods of time. Then the recollections would become dreams, and the images from the past mixed with the future. Anna Sergeevna did not appear to him in dreams, but followed him everywhere like a shadow. Closing his eyes he would see her as if real, and she appeared more beautiful, younger, and gentler; and to himself he appeared better than in Yalta. During the evenings she would look at him from the bookshelf, fireplace, and corner; he would hear her breathing, he would hear the soft rustle of her clothing. On the street he followed women with his eyes, seeking someone that might look like her... 

He now suffered from a powerful desire to share his experience. At home, he could not talk about his love, and outside there was nobody to chat with. He couldn’t talk to tenants, and he could not talk in the bank. And what was there to talk about? Had he been in love then? Had there been something beautiful, poetic, enlightening, or at least interesting in his relationship with Anna Sergeevna? He would talk about love, about women, nobody had any clue when he meant, and only his wife raising her dark eyebrows and would say: 

-The role of a dandy is unsuitable for you, Dimitry. 

One night, as he was leaving the university club with his card playing partner, an official, he couldn’t hold back and said: 

-Oh, if you only knew what a charming lady I met in Yalta! 

The official sat on the sledge riding off, but turned and remarked: 

-Dmitry, Dmitrich!

-What?

-You were right: the sturgeon smelled foul!

These trivial words, for some unknown reason, troubled Gurov. They appeared degrading, soiled. What primitive customs, what primitive people! What senseless nights, what dull insignificant days! The frantic card games, gluttony, drinking, the interminable conversations about the same subjects. The trifling affairs and the talk about the same thing tears away one’s best time, depletes the better part of one’s strength, and all that’s left is some kind of limping, wingless life, something nonsensical and unescapable, like being in a madhouse or penal colony. 

That night Gurov did not sleep. He was restless with indignation, which caused him to suffer from a headache the entire day. The following night he didn’t sleep well either, sitting up all night thinking or pacing from corner to corner. His children bored him, the bank bored him; he had no desire to go anywhere or to talk about anything. 

During the December holidays he got ready for a journey, and told his wife he was going to Petersburg to petition for a young man, but he went to S. instead. What for? He himself didn’t know. He wanted to see Anna Sergeevna and to talk, to arrange a date. 

In the morning he arrived in S. and booked the hotel’s best room, that had the entire floor covered in a grey soldier’s canvas. On the table there was an inkwell grey from dust and adorned with a horse rider with a hand raised towards his hat but with the head missing. The doorman gave him the needed coordinates: the Von Diderich family lived on Staro-Goncharna street in their own house. This was close to the hotel. They lived in affluence; they had horses, and everyone in the city knew them. The doorman pronounced the name as “Dridirits”. 

Gurov slowly walked to Staro-Goncharna street looking for the house. A fence stretched out in front of the house. It was grey, long, and with nails. 

-One would want to escape from such an enclosure, thought Gurov, looking first towards the window, then the fence. 

He reflected: today is a holiday, and her husband is likely home. Besides, it would be tactless to go to the house and disturb her. If I were to send a letter, it would doubtless end up in the hands of her husband, ruining everything. It’s better to wait and see. He paced back and forth on the street near the fence, waiting for an opportunity. He saw a beggar trying to get in the door, attacked by dogs. An hour later, he heard a piano playing with faint and barely distinguishable sounds. Most probably, it was Anna Sergeevna playing. The main gate opened. An unfamiliar old lady came out from behind, and the familiar Pomeranian dog ran after her. Gurov wanted to call the dog, but his heart stopped. He was so nervous that he could not remember its name.

He continued walking and more and more he disdained the fence. Irritated, he thought Anna Sergeevna had already forgotten him, and perhaps she was already having fun with other men. It would be natural for a young woman to find herself in such a situation, having to look at this cursed fence. He returned to his hotel room and sat on the sofa for a while, not knowing what to do. Then he had lunch and slept.

-This is all so stupid and agitating, he thought, waking up and staring at the dark windows; it was night already. - And I’ve already slept enough. What am I going to do all night?

He sat up in the bed covered with a cheap grey blanket, like those used in hospitals, and tormented himself with annoyance:

-There’s your lady with the little dog… and there’s your adventure… Now here you are sitting.

In the morning, at the train station, his eyes had caught sight of a poster with very large letters: The Premier of “Geisha”. He remembered this and set off for the theatre.

-It’s very possible that she attends these premiers, - he thought.

The theatre was full. Here, like in all provincial theatres, a fog rose above the chandeliers. The gallery was restless with noise. In the first row, before the start of the show, the local dandies gathered, holding their hands behind their backs; and in the governor’s box, in the front row, sat the governor’s daughter, wearing a boa wrap, while the governor hid behind the curtains, with only his hands visible. The orchestra took a long time tuning up after the raising of the curtain. The entire time, as the audience went to their seats, Gurov sought thirstily with his eyes.

Anna Sergeevna appeared. She sat in the third row, and when Gurov caught sight of her, his heart quivered. And he now understood that there was no person in the entire world closer, more precious, and important for him. Blending in with the provincial crowd, this small woman with no outstanding features, holding a vulgar lorgnette, now filled his entire life. She was his sorrow, joy, his only happiness, the only one he desired. Under the noise of the awful orchestra with its wretched low-grade fiddles, he thought of how beautiful she was. He thought and dreamed.

A young man with short side-whiskers, very tall and stooping, came in and sat beside Anna Sergeevna. With every step he raised his head, looking like he was bowing. This probably was her husband, the man whom in Yalta she often referred to as a lackey during fits of sorrow. In his lanky body shape, whiskers, and small bald spot, there was a lackey-like modesty. He would smile and from his buttonhole shined some kind of learned medallion, lackey-like.

Her husband went out for a smoke during the first intermission. She remained in her seat. Gurov, who also sat on the ground floor, came up to her and spoke with a shaky voice, forcing a smile:

-Greetings.

She looked at him and turned pale, and again she looked at him horrified, not believing her eyes and squeezing her fan and lorgnette, holding back from swooning. They were both silent. She remained seated, while he stood, frightened by her reaction, not daring to take the seat next to her. The tuned fiddle and flute started playing. The situation then became scary. It seemed like the entire box was staring at them. She stood up and rushed towards the exit. He followed, and both walked muddle-headed down the corridors, down the stairs, here up and there down, while people in judicial school and special uniforms all with medals flitted before their eyes. Ladies and fur coats on hangers flashed by and an invisible wind blew through, wafting the scent of tobacco cigar-ends. Gurov thought to himself with his heart racing:

-Oh, Lord! Why all these people, this orchestra…

At that moment he remembered how that night at the station, sending off Anna Sergeevna, he told himself that everything was over and they would never see each other again. But how far it was from over!

In the narrow, gloomy staircase, where the signage read “entrance to the amphitheatre”, is where she stopped.

-You frightened me! - she said with a heavy sigh, still pale and not having come to herself. - Oh, how you frightened me! I can hardly breathe! Why have you come? Why?

-Please understand me, Anna, understand… - he started in a low tone, rushing. - I beg you, please understand…

She looked at him with fear, with supplication, with love. She stared at him, to clasp more firmly on to his features in her memory.

-How I suffer! - she continued, without listening to him. - This entire time I have thought only of you, I lived on the memory of you. And I wanted to forget, forget, but why, why have you come?

Higher on the platform, two students smoked and looked downwards, but Gurov did not care. He pulled Anna Sergeevna closer and kissed her face, cheeks, and hands.

-What are you doing, what are you doing? - she spoke horrified, pushing him away. - We have lost our minds. Leave today, leave now… I implore you for all that’s holy, I beg you… They are coming!

Someone was coming down the staircase.

-You must leave… - she continued in a whisper. - Are you listening, Dimitry Dimitrich? I will come to you, to Moscow. I have never been happy. Now, I’m miserable, and I will never know happiness, never! Don’t make me suffer even more! I swear I will come to Moscow. We must part now! My dear, we will part!

She squeezed his hand and hurried down, looking at him. Her eyes betrayed her unhappiness. Gurov remained for a short time. He listened, and when everything grew quiet, he looked for his hanger and left.

4

Anna Sergeevna started coming to him in Moscow. Once every two or three months she would leave S. telling her husband, she was going to see a professor regarding her woman’s ailment; her husband believed her and not. Arriving in Moscow, she would settle at the “Slavic Market”, and right away send the man in the red hat to Gurov. Gurov would go to her, and no one in Moscow knew.

One winter morning he was going to see her. The messenger had sent for him the night before and he did not dwell on it. His daughter walked with him, he wanted to walk her to school; it was on the way. Snow fell in large wet flakes.

-It’s three degrees, and still snow is falling, - Gurov said to his daughter. -But it’s only warm on the surface of the earth, at higher altitudes the atmosphere and temperature is altogether different.

-Papa, why is there no thunder during winter?

This, he explained as well. He spoke while thinking that here he was going to meet her, and not a single living soul knew about it, and, most likely, nobody would ever know. He lead two lives: one transparent, that everyone saw and knew, whoever needed to know, full of relative straightforwardness and relative falsehood, similar to the lives of acquaintances and friends; and the other passing in mystery. And by a strange fate of circumstances, perhaps by accident, all that was once important to him, interesting, necessary, what he was honest about and of what he did not deceive himself, what once was the core of his life, emerged from others, all deceit in him, the shell in which he hid in order to conceal the truth, like for example his job in the bank, arguments at the club, his “inferior race”, the celebrations that he would attend with his wife, all this was visible. Stemming from himself, he would judge others, not believing what he saw, and he would always assume that beneath a veil of secrets, like a veil of night, each person lived a real, most interesting life. Each personal existence stays hidden, and perhaps, in part, this is the reason civilized people make so much fuss about having their secrets protected.

Having dropped off his daughter at school, Gurov turned towards the “Slavic Market”. He took off his fur coat downstairs and went up, quietly knocking. Anna Sergeevna, dressed in his favourite gray dress, worn out from travel and expectations, had been waiting since last evening. She was pale. Looking at him, she did not smile. And as he walked in, she pressed herself to his chest. They kissed for long, as if having been apart a year or two.

-Well, how are you living there? - he asked. - What’s new?

-Wait, I’ll tell you, but now… I can’t.

She could not speak, since she was crying. She turned away and pressed her kerchief to her eyes.

-Well, let her cry while I sit, - he thought, and sat in the armchair.

A while later he rang and ordered tea; and then as he drank, she stood the entire time turned towards the window… She cried from emotion, from a sorrowful conscience, that their lives had become so complicated; they saw each other only in secret, hiding from society, like thieves! Were their lives not ruined?

-Now, stop! - he said.

It had become obvious to him their love would not finish soon. No end was in sight. Anna Sergeevna grew more and more attached, adored him. It would have been senseless to tell her that all this would one day end; she would not have believed it.

He came closer and drew her towards his shoulders, to caress her, to joke a little, and saw himself in the mirror.

His hair was already turning grey. And it was strange he had aged so much over the last years that his looks had waned. The shoulders on which his hands rested were warm and quivered. He felt a sympathy towards this woman, still so warm and beautiful, yet already close to withering and fading, like his own life. Why did she love him so? To women he was always that which he was not, and they loved not him, but the person created by their imaginations, and whom they greedily sought in their own lives; and even after noticing their mistake, they still loved the same. And none were happy with him. Time passed. He met new women, became intimate, broke up, but not once did he love; one can call it anything they will, just not love.

Only now, with his hair grey, did he fall in love, as it goes, with certainty, for the first time.

Anna Sergeevna and he loved each other, like very close kindred people, like man and woman, like gentle friends. They thought that fate itself had assigned them to each other, and it puzzled them how he had a wife, and she a husband. They were like two migratory birds, male and female, caught and forced to live in separate cages. All the shame of their pasts they had already forgiven, and they felt that their love had changed them.

Before, during moments of sorrow, he calmed himself with a variety of reasons, whatever would come into his head. Now he no longer needed the argumentation, but felt a deep compassion. He wanted to be sincere, gentle…

-Stop, my dear, - he would say. - You’ve cried, and it will be… Now let’s talk, we will figure out something.

Then they would discuss things at length, about how they would rid themselves of the need to hide, lie, to live in different cities, to be separated for long. How could they free themselves from this unbearable lifestyle?

- How? How? - he would ask, with his hands on his head. - How?

Just a little longer, and they would find the solution, and then the new, wonderful, happy life would begin. And to both it was clear the end was far, and the most complicated difficulties were just beginning.