Already he was tormented by a strong desire to share his memories with someone. But in his home it was im- possible to talk of his love, and he had no one to talk to outside; certainly he could not confide in his tenants or in anyone at the bank. And what was there to talk about? He hadn't loved her then, had he? Had there been anything beautiful, poetical, edifying, or simply in- teresting in his relations with Anna Sergeyevna? And he was forced to talk vaguely of love, of women, and no one guessed what he meant; only his wife would twitch her black eyebrows and say, "The part of a philanderer does not suit you at all, Dimitry."
One evening, coming out of the physicians' club with an official with whom he had been playing cards, he could not resist saying:
"If you only knew what a fascinating woman I be- came acquainted with at Yalta!"
The official got into his sledge and was driving away, but turned suddenly and shouted:
"Dmitry Dmitrich!"
"What is it?"
"You were right this evening: the sturgeon was a bit high."
These words, so commonplace, for some reason moved Gurov to indignation, and struck him as degrading and unclean. What savage manners, what mugs! What stu- pid nights, what dull, humdrum days! Frenzied gam- bling, gluttony, drunkenness, continual talk always about the same things! Futile pursuits and conversations al- ways about the same topics take up the better part of one's time, the better part of one's strength, and in the end there is left a life clipped and wingless, an absurd mess, and there is no escaping or getting away from it— just as though one were in a madhouse or a prison.
Gurov, boiling with indignation, did not sleep aU night. And he had a headache all the next day. And the following nights too he slept badly; he sat up in bed, thinking, or paced up and down his room. He was fed up with his children, fed up with the bank; he had no desire to go anywhere or to talk of anything.
In December during the holidays he prepared to take a trip and told his wife he was going to Petersburg to do what he could for a young friend—and he set off for
S What for? He did not know, himself. He wanted
to see Anna Sergeyevna and talk with her, to arrange a rendezvous if possible.
He arrived at S in the morning, and at the hotel
took the best room, in which the floor was covered with gray army cloth, and on the table there was an inkstand, gray with dust and topped by a figure on horseback, its hat in its raised hand and its head broken off. The porter gave him the necessary information: von Dideritz lived in a house of his own on Staro-Goncharnaya Street, not far from the hoteclass="underline" he was rich and lived well and kept his o^ horses; everyone in the town knew him. The porter pronounced the name: "Dridiritz."
Without haste Gurov made his way to Staro-Gon- charnaya Street and found the house. Directly opposite the house stretched a long gray fence studded with nalls.
"A fence like that would make one run away," thought Gurov, looking now at the fence, now at the windows of the house.
He reflected: this was a holiday, and the husband was apt to be at home. And in any case, it would be tactless to go into the house and disturb her. If he were to send her a note, it might fall into her husband's hc.nds, and that might spoil everything. The best thing was to rely on chance. And he kept walking up and down the street and along the fence, waiting for the chance. He saw a beggar go in at the gate and heard the dogs attack him; then an hour later he heard a piano, and the sound came to him faintly and indistinctly. Probably it was Anna Sergeyevna playing. The front door opened suddenly, and an old woman came out, followed by the familiar white Pomeranian. Gurov was on the point of calling to the dog, but his heart began beating violently, and in his excitement he could not remember the Pom- eranian's name.
He kept walking up and down, and hated the gray fence more and more, and by now he thought irritably that Anna Sergeyevna had forgotten him, and was per- haps already diverting herself with another man, and that that was very natural in a young woman who from morning till night had to look at that damn fence. He went back to his hotel room and sat on the couch for a long while, not knowing what to do, then he had dinner and a long nap.
"How stupid and annoying all this is!" he thought when he woke and looked at the dark windows: it was already evening. "Here I've had a good sleep for some reason. What am I going to do at night?"
He sat on the bed, which was covered with a cheap gray blanket of the kind seen in hospitals, and he twitted himself in his vexation:
"So there's your lady with the pet dog. There's your adventure. A nice place to cool your heels in."
That morning at the station a playbill in large letters had caught his eye. The Geisha was to be given for the first time. He thought of this and drove to the theater.
"It's quite possible that she goes to first nights," he thought.
The theater was full. As in all provincial theaters, there was a haze above the chandelier, the gallery was noisy and restless; in the front row, before the begin- ning of the performance the local dandies were standing with their hands clasped behind their backs; in the Governor's box the Governor's daughter, wearing a boa, occupied the front seat, while the Governor himself hid modestly behind the portiere and only his hands were visible; the curtain swayed; the orchestra was a long time tuning up. While the audience were corr.ing in and taking their seats, Gurov scanned the faces eagerly.
Anna Sergeyevna, too, came in. She sat down in the third row, and when Gurov looked at her his heart con- tracted, and he understood clearly that in the whole world there was no human being so near, so precious, and so important to him; she, this little, undistinguished woman, lost in a provincial crowd, with a vulgar lor- gnette in her hand, filled his whole life now, was his sorrow and his joy, the only happiness that he now de- sired for himself, and to the sounds of the bad orchestra, of the miserable local violins, he thought how lovely she was. He thought and dreamed.
A young man with small side-whiskers, very tall and stooped, came in with Anna Sergeyevna and sat do^ beside her; he nodded his head at every step and seemed to be bowing continually. Probably this was the husband whom at Yalta, in an access of bitter feeling, she had called a flunkey. And there really was in his lanky figure, his side-whiskers, his small bald patch, something of a flunkey's retiring manner; his smile was mawkish, and in his buttonhole there was an academic badge like a waiter's number.
During the first inte^rission the husband went out to have a smoke; she remained in her seat. Gurov, who was also sitting in the orchestra, went up to her and said in a shaky voice, with a forced smile:
"Good evening!"
She glanced at him and turned pale, then looked at him again in horror, unable to believe her eyes, and gripped the fan and the lorgnette tightly together in her hands, evidently trying to keep herself from faint- ing. Both were silent. She was sitting, he was standing, frightened by her distress and not daring to take a seat beside her. The violins and the flute that were being tuned up sang out. He suddenly felt frightened: it seemed as if all the people in the boxes were looking at them. She got up and went hurriedly to the exit; he followed her, and both of them walked blindly along the corridors and up and down stairs, and figures in the uniforms prescribed for magistrates, teachers, and officials of the Department of Crown Lands, all wear- ing badges, flitted before their eyes, as did also ladies, and fur coats on hangers; they were conscious of drafts and the smell of stale tobacco. And Gurov, whose heart was beating violently, thought: