[adapted]

by
Anton Chekhov

I

People said that a new person had arrived at the sea-front: a lady with a little dog. Dmitri Dmitritch Gurov, who had been in Yalta for two weeks, already felt at home there and was starting to notice new people. Sitting in Verney’s café, he saw a fair-haired young woman of medium height walking along the sea-front, wearing a beret. A small white Pomeranian dog was running behind her.

Later, he saw her again in the public gardens and in the town square, many times a day. She always walked alone, always wore the same beret, and always had the same white dog with her. No one knew who she was, and everyone just called her “the lady with the dog.”

“If she’s here alone without a husband or friends, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to get to know her,” Gurov thought.

He was not yet forty, but he already had a twelve-year-old daughter and two sons who were in school. He had married young, when he was still a student in his second year. Now, his wife seemed much older than him. She was tall, stood straight, had dark eyebrows, and behaved seriously. She called herself an intellectual. She read a lot, used new-style spelling, and didn’t call her husband Dmitri, but Dimitri. Secretly, he thought she was not very smart, narrow-minded, and not graceful. He was afraid of her and didn’t like being at home.

He had started cheating on her a long time ago — many times — and maybe because of that, he almost always spoke badly about women. When people talked about women around him, he used to call them “the lower race.”

He felt that, because of his bad experiences, he had the right to say such things. Still, he couldn’t go two days without seeing “the lower race.” When he was with men, he felt bored and awkward. He didn’t talk much and didn’t enjoy himself. But when he was with women, he felt relaxed and knew what to say and how to act. He was comfortable even when he said nothing. There was something about his looks, his personality, his whole way of being, that attracted women and made them like him. He knew this, and he also felt something pulling him toward them.

Bad experiences, especially with serious people like those from Moscow—who are usually slow and unsure—had taught Gurov that every new romance, which at first feels fun and light, always turns into something complicated. In the end, it becomes a problem that is hard to deal with. But every time he met an interesting woman, he forgot all of this. He felt full of life again, and everything seemed easy and fun.

One evening, he was eating dinner in the garden when the lady in the beret came and sat at the next table. Her face, the way she walked, her clothes, and her hairstyle told Gurov that she was a lady, she was married, this was her first time in Yalta, and she was there alone—and bored. Stories about how people behave badly in places like Yalta are often not true. Gurov didn’t believe them and thought such stories were made up by people who would misbehave too, if they had the chance. But when the lady sat just three steps away, he remembered those stories—about quick love affairs, trips to the mountains—and the exciting idea of a short romance with a woman he didn’t even know suddenly filled his mind.

He called the little Pomeranian dog gently, and when it came closer, he waved his finger at it. The dog growled, and he waved his finger again.

The lady looked at him, then quickly looked away.

“He doesn’t bite,” she said, and blushed.

“May I give him a bone?” Gurov asked. When she nodded, he asked politely, “Have you been in Yalta long?”

“Five days.”

“And I’ve already spent two weeks here.”

There was a short silence.

“Time goes quickly, but it’s so boring here,” she said, not looking at him.

“People just say that because it’s what everyone says. A person can live in a small town like Belyov or Zhidra and not be bored, but then they come here and say, ‘Oh, how boring! Oh, the dust!’ You’d think they came from Grenada.”

She laughed. Then they both ate quietly, like strangers. But after dinner, they walked together side by side. Their talk became light and friendly—like people who are relaxed and free, and who don’t care where they go or what they talk about. They walked and spoke about the strange light over the sea. The water looked soft and warm, like the color lilac, and there was a golden line from the moon across it. They talked about how hot and heavy the air felt after the warm day.

Gurov told her that he was from Moscow, that he had studied Arts at university, but worked at a bank. He said he had trained to sing opera but gave it up, and that he owned two houses in Moscow. She told him she had grown up in Petersburg, but had lived in S---- since she got married two years ago. She said she would stay in Yalta for another month, and maybe her husband would come to take her home. She wasn’t sure if her husband worked for the Crown or the Provincial Council—and she laughed at herself for not knowing. Gurov also found out her name: Anna Sergeyevna.

Later, in his hotel room, Gurov thought about her. He was sure they would meet again the next day—it just seemed certain. As he got into bed, he thought about how not long ago she had been a schoolgirl, doing her lessons, just like his own daughter. He remembered how shy and awkward she still seemed in her laugh and the way she spoke with a stranger. This must have been the first time in her life that she was alone in a place where men looked at her, followed her, and spoke to her just because they were interested. He thought of her thin, gentle neck and her lovely grey eyes.

“There is something sad about her,” he thought. Then he fell asleep.

II

A week had passed since they first met. It was a holiday. Inside it was hot, and outside the wind blew the dust around and even blew people’s hats off. It was a dry, thirsty day, and Gurov often went to the café and asked Anna Sergeyevna to drink some sweet water or have an ice. Nobody knew what to do in that weather.

In the evening, when the wind had calmed down a little, they walked to the pier to see the steamer come in. Many people were walking around the harbor. Some had come to meet passengers and brought flowers with them. Two things were easy to notice in the well-dressed Yalta crowd: older women dressed like young girls, and there were many generals.

Because the sea was rough, the steamer came late—after the sun had already gone down—and it moved around for a long time before it reached the pier. Anna Sergeyevna looked through her small glasses at the ship and the people on it, as if she was trying to find someone she knew. When she turned to Gurov, her eyes were shining. She talked a lot and asked many little questions, then forgot what she had said just a moment later. In the crowd, she dropped her glasses.

The happy crowd started to leave. It was now too dark to see people’s faces. The wind had stopped completely, but Gurov and Anna Sergeyevna still stood there, as if they were waiting for someone else to come from the boat. Anna Sergeyevna didn’t say anything now. She just smelled her flowers and didn’t look at Gurov.

“The weather is nicer this evening,” he said. “Shall we go somewhere? Maybe take a drive?”

She didn’t answer.

Then he looked closely at her, suddenly put his arm around her, and kissed her on the lips. He could smell the flowers and feel the moisture on her face. Right away he looked around to see if anyone had seen them.

“Let’s go to your hotel,” he said quietly. They both walked quickly.

Her room was warm and smelled like the perfume she had bought at the Japanese shop. Gurov looked at her and thought, “People can be so different.”

He remembered women from his past. Some had been kind and easygoing. They loved him happily and were thankful for the short moments of joy they had with him. Others, like his wife, showed love without true feeling. They used too many words and acted dramatic, as if it was not real love but something more serious. Then there were two or three very beautiful women who were cold. He had seen a greedy look on their faces—as if they wanted more from life than it could give. These women were bossy, silly, and no longer young. When Gurov lost interest in them, their beauty made him feel angry, and even the lace on their clothes reminded him of fish scales.

But this time, things felt different. Anna Sergeyevna was shy and nervous, like someone young and not used to love. She seemed shocked, as if someone had suddenly knocked at the door. Her way of reacting to what had happened was strange—very serious, as if she had done something terribly wrong. Her face looked pale and tired, and her long hair hung sadly on both sides of her face. She sat quietly, looking down, like a sad woman in an old painting.

“It’s wrong,” she said. “Now you’ll look down on me.”

There was a watermelon on the table. Gurov cut a slice and started eating slowly. They sat in silence for at least half an hour.

Anna Sergeyevna looked gentle and sweet. She seemed like a good, simple woman who hadn’t seen much of the world. One candle burned on the table, giving a soft light to her face. She looked very unhappy.

“How could I look down on you?” asked Gurov. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“God forgive me,” she said, and her eyes filled with tears. “It’s terrible.”

“You talk like someone asking for forgiveness,” he said.

“Forgiveness? No. I am a bad, low woman. I hate myself and won’t try to explain or excuse what I’ve done. It’s not my husband I’ve tricked—it’s myself. And not just now. I’ve been lying to myself for a long time. My husband may be a good, honest man, but he is like a servant! I don’t even know what his job is, but I know he acts like a flunkey! I was twenty when I married him. I’ve been full of curiosity. I wanted something more. I thought, ‘There must be a different kind of life.’ I wanted to live! To really live! I was burning with curiosity. You won’t understand it, but I swear I couldn’t stop myself. Something happened inside me—I couldn’t stay still. I told my husband I was sick, and I came here. And here I’ve been walking around like someone in a dream, like a mad person. And now I’ve become a cheap, shameful woman that anyone can look down on.”

Gurov was already getting bored as he listened. Her words and her guilt felt too dramatic. He was annoyed by her tone and her sudden regret. If she hadn’t had tears in her eyes, he might have thought she was just pretending.

“I don’t understand,” he said quietly. “What is it that you want?”

She hid her face on his chest and held on to him tightly.

“Please believe me… please,” she said. “I love a good, honest life. Sin makes me sick. I don’t know what I’m doing. Simple people say, ‘The Devil tricked me.’ And I think I can say the same thing now—that the Devil tricked me.”

“Hush, hush…” he whispered.

He looked at her wide, frightened eyes, kissed her, spoke softly and kindly, and little by little, she calmed down. Her smile came back, and soon they were both laughing.

Later, when they went outside, the sea-front was empty. The town with its dark trees looked quiet and still, like it was asleep. But the sea was still loud as it hit the shore. A single boat rocked on the waves, and a small lantern on it blinked sleepily.

They found a carriage and rode to Oreanda.

“I saw your last name on the board in the hotel hall—it’s Von Diderits,” said Gurov. “Is your husband German?”

“No, I think his grandfather was German, but he is Russian Orthodox.”

At Oreanda, they sat on a bench not far from the church. They looked down at the sea and said nothing. Yalta could barely be seen through the morning mist. White clouds stood still on the tops of the mountains. The leaves on the trees didn’t move. Grasshoppers made their quiet sounds, and from below, the slow, steady noise of the sea rose up. It sounded peaceful, like it was talking about eternal sleep.

It must have sounded the same when Yalta and Oreanda didn’t exist yet. It sounds the same now, and it will still sound the same after we are gone. Maybe in this quiet sameness, in the way the sea doesn’t care about any of us, there is a kind of promise—that life on earth will go on, always moving forward, always growing. Sitting next to a young woman who looked so beautiful in the early morning light, and surrounded by the sea, the mountains, the clouds, and the sky, Gurov thought that everything in the world is beautiful—everything, except what we think or do when we forget to be kind and forget the higher purpose of our lives.

A man came up to them—probably a guard—looked at them, then walked away. Even that small moment felt strange and beautiful. They saw a ship from Theodosia out in the distance, its lights glowing in the morning sky.

“There’s dew on the grass,” said Anna Sergeyevna after a pause.