Someone—a watchman, no doubt—came up, looked at thcm, went away. Even this incident seemed mysterious—beautiful, too. In the dawn they saw a steamer arrive from Feodosiya, its lights already extinguishcd.
'There's dew on the grass,' Anne said, after a pause.
'Yes, time to go home.'
They went back to town.
After this they met on the promenade each noon, lunchcd, dined, strolled, enthused about the sea together. She complained of sleeping badly, of palpitations. Disturbed by jealousy, and by the fear that he did not rcspect her enough, she kept repeating the same old questions. And often in the Square or Gardens, when there was nobody near them, he would suddenly draw her to him and kiss her ardently. This utter idleness, these kisses in broad daylight, these glancesover the shoulder, this fear of being seen, the heat, the sea's smell, the repeated glimpses of i dle, elegant, sleek persons . .. it all seemed to revitalize him. He told Anne how pretty she was, how provocative. He was impetuous, he was passionate,'he never left her side, while she was for ever brooding and begging him to admit that he did not rcspect her, that he loved her not at all, that he could see in her no more than a very ordinary woman. Late almost every evening they would drive out oftown: to Oreanda or the waterfall. These trips were invariably a great succcss, leaving an impression of majesty and beauty.
They had been expecting the husband to arrive, but he sent a letter to say that he had eye trouble, and begged his wife to come home soon. Anne bestirred herself.
'It's just as well I am leaving,' she told Gurov. 'This is fate.'
She left by carriage and he drove with her. This part of her journey took all day. When she took her seat in the express train, which was due to leave in five minutes, she asked to look at hi'inm once more.
'One last look—that's right.'
She did not cry, but was so sad that she secmed ill. Her face quivered.
'I'll think of you, I'll remembcr you,' she said. 'God blcss and keep you. Don't think ill of me. We'rc parting for ever. We must, because we should never have met at all. God bless you.'
The train dcparted swiftly, its lights soon vanislnng and its noise dying away within a minute, as though everything had conspired to make a quick end of that sweet trance, that madness. Alone on thc platform, gazing into the dark distance, Gurov heard the chirp of grasshoppers and the hum of telegraph wires, feeling as if he had just awoken. Well, there went another adventure or episode in his life, he reflected.-It too had ended, now only the memory was left.
He was troubled, sad, somewhat penitent. This young woman whom he would nevcr see again ... she hadn't been happy with him, now, had she? He had treated hcr kindly and affectionately. And yet his attitude to her, his tone, his caresses had betrayed a faint irony: the rather crude condescension of your conquering male—of a man nearly twice her age into the bargain. She had kept calling him kind, exceptional, noble—so she hadn't scen him as he really was, obviously, and he must havc been deceiving her without meaning to.
Here at the station there was already a whiff of autumn in thc air, and the evening was cool.
'It's time I went north too,' thought Gurov, leaving the platform. 'High time.'
Back home in Moscow it was already likc winter. The stoves were alight. It was dark when his children breakfastcd and got ready for school in the mornings, so their nanny lit the light for a short time. The frosts had begun. It is always such a joy to see the white ground and white roofs when the snow first falls, on that first day of sleigh- riding. The air is so fresh and good to breathe, and you remember the years of your youth. White with frost, the old limes and birches have a kindly look, they are dearer to your heart than any cypresses or palm-trees, and near them you no longer hanker after mountains and sea.
A Moscow man himself, Gurov had come home on a fine frosty day. He put on his fur coat and warm gloves and strolled do^ the Petrovka, he heard church bells pealing on Saturday evening . .. and his reccnt trip, all the places he had visited, lost all charm for him. He plunged deeper and decper into Moscow life. He was zealously reading his thrce newspapers on principle! He felt the lure ofrestaurants, clubs, dinner parties, anniversary celcbrations; he was flattcred to be visitcd by famous lawyers and actors, flattered to play cards with a professor at the Doctors' Club. He could tackle a large helping of'Moscow hot- pot' straight from the pan.
In a month or two's time the memory of ^rne would become blurred, thought he—he would just dream of her, of her adorable smile, occasionally as he used to dream of those other ones. But more than a month passed, real winter set in, and yet everything was still as clear in his mind as if they had parted only yesterday. His memories flared up ever more brightly. When, in the quiet of evening, his chil- dren's voices reached his study as they did their homework, when he heard a sentimental song or a barrel organ in a restaurant, when a blizzard howled in his chi^ey . .. it would all suddenly come back tohim: that business on the pier, the early morning with the mist on the mountains, the Feodosiya steamer, the kisses. He would pace the room for hours, remembering and smiling until these recollections merged into fantasies: until, in his imagination, past fused with future. Though he did not dreamof ^me, she pursued everywhere like his shadow, watching him. If he closed his eyes he could see her vividly—younger, gentler, more beautiful than she really was. He even saw himself as a better man than he had been back in Yalta.
She gazed at him from the book-case in the evenings, from thc hearth, from a corner of the room. He heard her breathing, heard the delightful rustle of her dress. In the street he followed women with his eyes, seeking one like her.
He was plagued, now, by the urge to share his memorieS'. But he could not talk about his love at home, and outside his home there was no one to tell—he couldn't very well discuss it with his tenants or at the bank! What was there to say, anyway? Had he really been in love? Had there really been anything beautiful or idyllic, anything edifying— anything merely interesting, even—in his relations with Anne? He was reduced.to vague remarks about love and women, and no one guessed what he had in mind. His wife just twitched those dark eye- brows and told him that 'the role oflady-killcr doesn't suit you at all, Demetrius'.
As he was leaving the Doctors' Club one night with his partner, a civil servant, he could not help saying that he had 'met such an enchant- ing woman in Yalta—did you but know!'
The civil servant climbed into his sledge and drove off. but suddenly turned round and shouted Gurov's name.
'What is it?'
'You were quite right just now, the sturgeon was a bit off.'
For some reason these words, humdrum though they were, sud- denly infuriated Gurov, striking him as indelicate and gross. What barbarous manners, what faces, what meaningless nights, what dull, featureless days ! Frantic card-playing, guzzling, drunkenness, endless ^atter always on one and the same topic. Futile activities, repetitious talk, talk, talk ... they engross most of your time, your best efforts, and you end up with a sort of botched, pedestrian life: a form of imbecility from which there's no way out, no escape. You might as well be in jail or in a madhouse!
Gurov lay awake all night, fuming—then had a headache all next day. He slept badly on the following nights, too, sitting up in bed th^&ng, or pacing the room. He was fed up with his children, fed up with his bank, there was nowhere he wanted to go, nothing he wanted to talk about.