From her he learnt that she had gro^ up in St. Petersburg, but had marned in the provincial to^ where she had now been living for two years, that she was staying in Yalta for another month, that her husband (who also wanted a holiday) might come and fetch her. She was quite unable to explain her husband's job—was it with the County Council or the Rural District?—and even she saw the funny side of this. Gurov also learnt that she was called Anne.
In his hotel room afterwards he thought about her. He was very likely to meet her tomorrow, bound to. As he went to bed he remem- bered that she had not ll)ng left boarding-school, that she had been a schoolgirl like his o^ daughter—remembered, too, how much shyness and stiffuess she still showed when laughing and talking to a stranger. This must be her first time ever alone in such a place, with men following her around, watching her, talking to her: all with a certain privy aim which she could not fail to divine. He remembered her slender, frail neck, her lovely grey eyes.
'You can't help feeling sorry for her, though,' he thought. And dozed off.
II
A week had passed since their first meeting. It was a Sunday or some other holiday. Indoors was stifling, and outside flurries of dust swept the streets, whipping off hats. It was a thirsty day, and Gurov kept calling in at the cafe to fetch Anne a soft d^^ or an ice-cream. There was no escaping the heat.
In the evening things were a little easier, and they went on the pier to watch a steamer come in. There were a lot ofpeople hanging around on the landing-stage: they were here to meet someone, and held bun- ches of flowers. Two features of the Yalta smart set were now thro^n into sharp relief. The older women dressed like young ones. There were lots.ofgenerals.
As the sea was tough the steamer arrived late, after s^uet, and mana:uvred for some time before putting in at thejetty. Anne watched boat and passengers through her lorgnette as if seeking someone she knew. Whenever she turned to Gurov her eyes shone. She spoke a lot, asking quick-fire questions and immediately forgetting what they were. Then she lost her lorgnette: dropped it in the crowd.
Thc gaily-dressed gathering dispersed, no more faces could be seen, and the wind dropped completely while Gurov and Anne stood as if waiting for somcone else to discmbark. Anne had stopped talking, and sniffcd her flowers without looking at Gurov.
'The weather's better now that it's evening,' said he. 'So where shall we go? How about driving somewhere?'
She did not answer.
Then he stared at her hard, embraced her suddenly and kissed her lips. The sccnt of her flowers, their dampncss, enveloped him, and he immediately glanced around fearfully: had they been observed?
'Let's go to your room,' he said softly.
They set off quickly together.
Her room was stuffy and smelt of the scent which she had bought in the Japanese shop.
'What encounters one does have in life,' thought Gurov as he looked at her now.
He still retained memories of the easy-going, light-hearted women in his past: women happy in their love and grateful to him for that happiness, however brieЈ He also recalled those who, like his wife, made love insincerely, with idle chatter, affectations and hystetia, their expressions conveying that this was neither love nor passion but something more significant. He thought of two or three very beautiful frigid women whose faces would suddenly flash a rapacious, stubborn look of lust to seize, to snatch more from life than it can give . . . women no longer young, these: fractious, unreasonable, overbearing and obtuse. When Gurov had cooled towards them their beauty had aroused his hatred, and the bce on their underclothes had looked like a lizard's scales.
In this case, though, all was hesitancy, the awkwardness of inex- perienced youth. There was the impression of her being taken aback, too, as by a sudden knock on the door. Anne, this 'lady with a dog', had her o^ special view—a very serious one—ofwhat had happened. She thought of it as her 'downfall', it seemed, which was all very strange and inappropriate. Her features had sunk and faded, her long hair drooped sadly down each side of her face. She had struck a pensive, despondent pose, like the Woman Taken in Aduhery in an old-fashioned picture.
'This is all wrong,' she said. 'Now you'll completely despise me.'
There was a water-melon on the table. Gurov cut a slice and slowly ate. Half an hour, at least, passed in silence.
He found Anne touching. She had that air of naive innocence of a thoroughly nice unworldly woman. A solitary candle,- burning on the table, barely lit her face, but it was obvious that she was ill at ease.
'Why should I lose respect for you?' asked Gurov. 'You don't know what you're saying.'
'God forgive me,' she said, her eyes brimming with tears. 'This is terrible.'
'You seem very much on the defensive, Anne.'
'How can I defend what I've clone? I'm a bad, wicked woman, I despise myself and I'm not trying to make excuses. It's not my husband, it is myself I've deceived. I don't just mean what happened here, I've been deceiving myself for a long time. My husband may be a good, honourable man, but he is such a worm. What he does at that job of his I don't know—all I know is, he's a worm. I was twenty when I married him—I longed to know more oflife. Then I wanted something better. There must be a different life, mustn't there? Or so I told myself. I wanted a little—well, rather more than a little—excitement. I was avid for experience. You won't understand me, I'm sure, but I could control myself no longer, I swear, something had happened to me, there was no holding me. So I told my husband I was ill and I came here. And I've been going round here in a daze as ifl wasoff my head. But now I'm just another vulgar, worthless woman whom everyone is free to despise.'
Gurov was bored with all this. He was irritated by the naive air, the unexpected, uncalled-for remorse. But for the tears in her eyes he might have thought her to be joking or play-acting.
'I don't understand,' said he softly. 'What is it you want?'
She hid her face on his breast and clung to him.
'Please, please believe me,' she implored. 'I long for a decent, moral life. Sin disgusts me, I don't know what I'm doing myself. The co^rnon people say the "Evil One" tempted them, and now I can say the same: I was tempted by the Evil One.'
'There there, that's enough,' he muttered.
He looked into her staring, frightened eyes, kissed her, spoke softly and gently. She gradually relaxed and cheered up again. Both laughed.
Thcn they wcnt out. Thc promcnadc w.is deserted, thc town with its cyprcsses lookcd quite de:1d, but the sca still ro.ircd, breaking on thc beach. A single launch with a sleepily glinting lamp tossed on the waves.
They found a cab and drove to Oreanda.
'I've only just discovered your surname, downstairs in your hotel,' Gurov told her. '"Von Diederitz", it says on the board. Is your husband German?'
'No, his grandfathcr was, I think, but he's Russian.'
They sat on a bench near thc -church at Orcanda, gazing silently down at the sea. Yalta was barely visible through thc dawn mist, white clouds hung motionless on the mountain peaks. Not a leaf stirred on the trees, cicadas chirped. Borne up from below, the sea's monotonous, muffled boom spoke of peace, of the evcrlasting sleep awaiting us. Bcforc Yalta or Orcanda yet cxisted that surf had bccn thundering down there, it was roaring away now, and it will continue its dull booming with the same unconcern when wc arc no more. This persistence, this utter aloofness from all our lives and deaths ... do they perhaps hold the secret pledge of our eternal salvation, of life's perpetual motion on earth, of its uninterrupted progress? As he sat there, lulled and entranced by the magic panorama—sea, mountains, clouds, broad sky—beside a young woman who looked so beautiful in the dawn, Gurov reflected that everything on earth is beautiful, really, when you consider it—everything except what we think and do our- selves when we forgct the lofty goals of bcing and our human dignity.