The Lady With The Little Dog带小狗的女人

The Lady With The Little Dog

by Anton Chekhov

I

IT was said that a new person had appeared on the sea-front: a lady with a

little dog. Dmitri Dmitritch Gurov, who had by then been a fortnight at Yalta,

and so was fairly at home there, had begun to take an interest in new arrivals.

Sitting in Verney's pavilion, he saw, walking on the sea-front, a fair-haired

young lady of medium height, wearing a bret; a white Pomeranian dog was

running behind her.

And afterwards he met her in the public gardens and in the square several

times a day. She was walking alone, always wearing the same bret, and

always with the same white dog; no one knew who she was, and every one

called her simply

her acquaintance,

He was under forty, but he had a daughter already twelve years old, and two

sons at school. He had been married young, when he was a student in his

second year, and by now his wife seemed half as old again as he. She was a

tall, erect woman with dark eyebrows, staid and dignified, and, as she said of

herself, intellectual. She read a great deal, used phonetic spelling, called her

husband, not Dmitri, but Dimitri, and he secretly considered her unintelligent,

narrow, inelegant, was afraid of her, and did not like to be at home. He had

begun being unfaithful to her long ago -- had been unfaithful to her often, and,

probably on that account, almost always spoke ill of women, and when they

were talked about in his presence, used to call them

It seemed to him that he had been so schooled by bitter experience that he

might call them what he liked, and yet he could not get on for two days

together without

himself, with them he was cold and uncommunicative; but when he was in the

company of women he felt free, and knew what to say to them and how to

behave; and he was at ease with them even when he was silent. In his

appearance, in his character, in his whole nature, there was something

attractive and elusive which allured women and disposed them in his favour;

he knew that, and some force seemed to draw him, too, to them.

Experience often repeated, truly bitter experience, had taught him long ago

that with decent people, especially Moscow people -- always slow to move and

irresolute -- every intimacy, which at first so agreeably diversifies life and

appears a light and charming adventure, inevitably grows into a regular

problem of extreme intricacy, and in the long run the situation becomes

unbearable. But at every fresh meeting with an interesting woman this

experience seemed to slip out of his memory, and he was eager for life, and

everything seemed simple and amusing.

One evening he was dining in the gardens, and the lady in the bret came up

slowly to take the next table. Her expression, her gait, her dress, and the way

she did her hair told him that she was a lady, that she was married, that she

was in Yalta for the first time and alone, and that she was dull there. . . . The

stories told of the immorality in such places as Yalta are to a great extent

untrue; he despised them, and knew that such stories were for the most part

made up by persons who would themselves have been glad to sin if they had

been able; but when the lady sat down at the next table three paces from him,

he remembered these tales of easy conquests, of trips to the mountains, and

the tempting thought of a swift, fleeting love affair, a romance with an unknown

woman, whose name he did not know, suddenly took possession of him.

He beckoned coaxingly to the Pomeranian, and when the dog came up to him

he shook his finger at it. The Pomeranian growled: Gurov shook his finger at it

again.

The lady looked at him and at once dropped her eyes.

courteously,

There was a brief silence.

Zhidra and not be dull, and when he comes here it's 'Oh, the dulness! Oh, the

dust!' One would think he came from Grenada.

She laughed. Then both continued eating in silence, like strangers, but after

dinner they walked side by side; and there sprang up between them the light

jesting conversation of people who are free and satisfied, to whom it does not

matter where they go or what they talk about. They walked and talked of the

strange light on the sea: the water was of a soft warm lilac hue, and there was

a golden streak from the moon upon it. They talked of how sultry it was after a

hot day. Gurov told her that he came from Moscow, that he had taken his

degree in Arts, but had a post in a bank; that he had trained as an opera-singer,

but had given it up, that he owned two houses in Moscow. . . . And from her he

learnt that she had grown up in Petersburg, but had lived in S---- since her

marriage two years before, that she was staying another month in Yalta, and

that her husband, who needed a holiday too, might perhaps come and fetch

her. She was not sure whether her husband had a post in a Crown Department

or under the Provincial Council -- and was amused by her own ignorance. And

Gurov learnt, too, that she was called Anna Sergeyevna.

Afterwards he thought about her in his room at the hotel -- thought she would

certainly meet him next day; it would be sure to happen. As he got into bed he

thought how lately she had been a girl at school, doing lessons like his own

daughter; he recalled the diffidence, the angularity, that was still manifest in

her laugh and her manner of talking with a stranger. This must have been the

first time in her life she had been alone in surroundings in which she was

followed, looked at, and spoken to merely from a secret motive which she

could hardly fail to guess. He recalled her slender, delicate neck, her lovely

grey eyes.

II

A week had passed since they had made acquaintance. It was a holiday. It

was sultry indoors, while in the street the wind whirled the dust round and

round, and blew people's hats off. It was a thirsty day, and Gurov often went

into the pavilion, and pressed Anna Sergeyevna to have syrup and water or an

ice. One did not know what to do with oneself.

In the evening when the wind had dropped a little, they went out on the groyne

to see the steamer come in. There were a great many people walking about

the harbour; they had gathered to welcome some one, bringing bouquets. And

two peculiarities of a well-dressed Yalta crowd were very conspicuous: the

elderly ladies were dressed like young ones, and there were great numbers of

generals.

Owing to the roughness of the sea, the steamer arrived late, after the sun had

set, and it was a long time turning about before it reached the groyne. Anna

Sergeyevna looked through her lorgnette at the steamer and the passengers

as though looking for acquaintances, and when she turned to Gurov her eyes

were shining. She talked a great deal and asked disconnected questions,

forgetting next moment what she had asked; then she dropped her lorgnette in

the crush.

The festive crowd began to disperse; it was too dark to see people's faces. The

wind had completely dropped, but Gurov and Anna Sergeyevna still stood as

though waiting to see some one else come from the steamer. Anna

Sergeyevna was silent now, and sniffed the flowers without looking at Gurov.

we drive somewhere?

She made no answer.

Then he looked at her intently, and all at once put his arm round her and

kissed her on the lips, and breathed in the moisture and the fragrance of the

flowers; and he immediately looked round him, anxiously wondering whether

any one had seen them.

The room was close and smelt of the scent she had bought at the Japanese

shop. Gurov looked at her and thought:

the world!

women, who loved cheerfully and were grateful to him for the happiness he

gave them, however brief it might be; and of women like his wife who loved

without any genuine feeling, with superfluous phrases, affectedly, hysterically,

with an expression that suggested that it was not love nor passion, but

something more significant; and of two or three others, very beautiful, cold

women, on whose faces he had caught a glimpse of a rapacious expression --

an obstinate desire to snatch from life more than it could give, and these were

capricious, unreflecting, domineering, unintelligent women not in their first

youth, and when Gurov grew cold to them their beauty excited his hatred, and

the lace on their linen seemed to him like scales.

But in this case there was still the diffidence, the angularity of inexperienced

youth, an awkward feeling; and there was a sense of consternation as though

some one had suddenly knocked at the door. The attitude of Anna Sergeyevna

--

grave, as though it were her fall -- so it seemed, and it was strange and

inappropriate. Her face dropped and faded, and on both sides of it her long

hair hung down mournfully; she mused in a dejected attitude like

who was a sinner

There was a water-melon on the table. Gurov cut himself a slice and began

eating it without haste. There followed at least half an hour of silence.

Anna Sergeyevna was touching; there was about her the purity of a good,

simple woman who had seen little of life. The solitary candle burning on the

table threw a faint light on her face, yet it was clear that she was very unhappy.

saying.

justify myself. It's not my husband but myself I have deceived. And not only just

now; I have been deceiving myself for a long time. My husband may be a good,

honest man, but he is a flunkey! I don't know what he does there, what his

work is, but I know he is a flunkey! I was twenty when I was married to him. I

have been tormented by curiosity; I wanted something better. 'There must be a

different sort of life,' I said to myself. I wanted to live! To live, to live! . . . I was

fired by curiosity . . . you don't understand it, but, I swear to God, I could not

control myself; something happened to me: I could not be restrained. I told my

husband I was ill, and came here. . . . And here I have been walking about as

though I were dazed, like a mad creature; . . . and now I have become a vulgar,

contemptible woman whom any one may despise.

Gurov felt bored already, listening to her. He was irritated by the nave tone, by

this remorse, so unexpected and inopportune; but for the tears in her eyes, he

might have thought she was jesting or playing a part.

She hid her face on his breast and pressed close to him.

and sin is loathsome to me. I don't know what I am doing. Simple people say:

'The Evil One has beguiled me.' And I may say of myself now that the Evil One

has beguiled me.

He looked at her fixed, scared eyes, kissed her, talked softly and affectionately,

and by degrees she was comforted, and her gaiety returned; they both began

laughing.

Afterwards when they went out there was not a soul on the sea-front. The town

with its cypresses had quite a deathlike air, but the sea still broke noisily on the

shore; a single barge was rocking on the waves, and a lantern was blinking

sleepily on it.

They found a cab and drove to Oreanda.

Von Diderits,

himself.

At Oreanda they sat on a seat not far from the church, looked down at the sea,

and were silent. Yalta was hardly visible through the morning mist; white

clouds stood motionless on the mountain-tops. The leaves did not stir on the

trees, grasshoppers chirruped, and the monotonous hollow sound of the sea

rising up from below, spoke of the peace, of the eternal sleep awaiting us. So it

must have sounded when there was no Yalta, no Oreanda here; so it sounds

now, and it will sound as indifferently and monotonously when we are all no

more. And in this constancy, in this complete indifference to the life and death

of each of us, there lies hid, perhaps, a pledge of our eternal salvation, of the

unceasing movement of life upon earth, of unceasing progress towards

perfection. Sitting beside a young woman who in the dawn seemed so lovely,

soothed and spellbound in these magical surroundings -- the sea, mountains,

clouds, the open sky -- Gurov thought how in reality everything is beautiful in

this world when one reflects: everything except what we think or do ourselves

when we forget our human dignity and the higher aims of our existence.

A man walked up to them -- probably a keeper -- looked at them and walked

away. And this detail seemed mysterious and beautiful, too. They saw a

steamer come from Theodosia, with its lights out in the glow of dawn.

They went back to the town.

Then they met every day at twelve o'clock on the sea-front, lunched and dined

together, went for walks, admired the sea. She complained that she slept badly,

that her heart throbbed violently; asked the same questions, troubled now by

jealousy and now by the fear that he did not respect her sufficiently. And often

in the square or gardens, when there was no one near them, he suddenly drew

her to him and kissed her passionately. Complete idleness, these kisses in

broad daylight while he looked round in dread of some one's seeing them, the

heat, the smell of the sea, and the continual passing to and fro before him of

idle, well-dressed, well-fed people, made a new man of him; he told Anna

Sergeyevna how beautiful she was, how fascinating. He was impatiently

passionate, he would not move a step away from her, while she was often

pensive and continually urged him to confess that he did not respect her, did

not love her in the least, and thought of her as nothing but a common woman.

Rather late almost every evening they drove somewhere out of town, to

Oreanda or to the waterfall; and the expedition was always a success, the

scenery invariably impressed them as grand and beautiful.

They were expecting her husband to come, but a letter came from him, saying

that there was something wrong with his eyes, and he entreated his wife to

come home as quickly as possible. Anna Sergeyevna made haste to go.

destiny!

She went by coach and he went with her. They were driving the whole day.

When she had got into a compartment of the express, and when the second

bell had rung, she said:

She did not shed tears, but was so sad that she seemed ill, and her face was

quivering.

Don't remember evil against me. We are parting forever -- it must be so, for we

ought never to have met. Well, God be with you.

The train moved off rapidly, its lights soon vanished from sight, and a minute

later there was no sound of it, as though everything had conspired together to

end as quickly as possible that sweet delirium, that madness. Left alone on the

platform, and gazing into the dark distance, Gurov listened to the chirrup of the

grasshoppers and the hum of the telegraph wires, feeling as though he had

only just waked up. And he thought, musing, that there had been another

episode or adventure in his life, and it, too, was at an end, and nothing was left

of it but a memory. . . . He was moved, sad, and conscious of a slight remorse.

This young woman whom he would never meet again had not been happy with

him; he was genuinely warm and affectionate with her, but yet in his manner,

his tone, and his caresses there had been a shade of light irony, the coarse

condescension of a happy man who was, besides, almost twice her age. All

the time she had called him kind, exceptional, lofty; obviously he had seemed

to her different from what he really was, so he had unintentionally deceived

her. . . .