Anton Chekhov: “The Lady with the Dog”
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33171 07 0071-0085.ps 4/26/06 12:42 PM Page 71 ANTON CHEKHOV [1860–1904] The Lady with the Dog TRANSLATED BY IVY LITVINOV, N.D. Born the son of a grocer and the grandson of a serf in Taganrog, a sea- coast town in southern Russia, Anton Chekhov (1860–1904) began writing humorous tales to support himself while studying medicine at Moscow University. In 1884 he received his medical degree and pub- lished his first collection of short stories, Tales of Melpomene. Other early collections are Motley Tales (1886), At Twilight (1887), and Stones (1888). Besides being a masterful writer of short stories, Chekhov is probably Russia’s most esteemed playwright. In 1898 the Moscow Art Theatre produced his play The Seagull, followed by Uncle Vanya in 1899, The Three Sisters in 1901, and The Cherry Orchard in 1904. Chekhov, known for his sad and subtle exploration of people’s inability to communicate as well as for his humanitarian activities, died at age 44 of tuberculosis, which he had contracted in his student days. I People were telling one another that a newcomer had been seen on the promenade — a lady with a dog. Dmitri Dmitrich Gurov had been a fort- night in Yalta, and was accustomed to its ways, and he, too, had begun to take an interest in fresh arrivals. From his seat in Vernet’s outdoor café, he caught sight of a young woman in a toque, passing along the prome- nade; she was fair and not very tall; after her trotted a white pomeranian. Later he encountered her in the municipal park, and in the square, several times a day. She was always alone, wearing the same toque, and the pomeranian always trotted at her side. Nobody knew who she was, and people referred to her simply as “the lady with the dog.” “If she’s here without her husband, and without any friends,” thought Gurov, “it wouldn’t be a bad idea to make her acquaintance.” He was not yet forty, but had a twelve-year-old daughter and two schoolboy sons. He had been talked into marrying in his second year at college, and his wife now looked nearly twice as old as he was. She was a tall, black-browed woman, erect, dignified, imposing, and, as she said of herself, a “thinker.” She was a great reader, omitted the “hard sign” at the end of words in her letters, and called her husband “Dimitri” instead of 71 33171 07 0071-0085.ps 4/26/06 12:42 PM Page 72 CHEKHOV / The Lady with the Dog Dmitri; and though he secretly considered her shallow, narrowminded, and dowdy, he stood in awe of her, and disliked being at home. It was long since he had first begun deceiving her and he was now constantly unfaithful to her, and this was no doubt why he spoke slightingly of women, to whom he referred as the lower race. He considered that the ample lessons he had received from bitter experience entitled him to call them whatever he liked, but without this “lower race” he could not have existed a single day. He was bored and ill- at-ease in the company of men, with whom he was always cold and reserved, but felt quite at home among women, and knew exactly what to say to them, and how to behave; he could even be silent in their com- pany without feeling the slightest awkwardness. There was an elusive charm in his appearance and disposition which attracted women and caught their sympathies. He knew this and was himself attracted to them by some invisible force. Repeated and bitter experience had taught him that every fresh inti- macy, while at first introducing such pleasant variety into everyday life, and offering itself as a charming, light adventure, inevitably developed, among decent people (especially in Moscow, where they are so irresolute and slow to move), into a problem of excessive complication leading to an intolerably irksome situation. But every time he encountered an attractive woman he forgot all about this experience, the desire for life surged up in him, and everything suddenly seemed simple and amusing. One evening, then, while he was dining at the restaurant in the park, the lady in the toque came strolling up and took a seat at a neighbouring table. Her expression, gait, dress, coiffure, all told him that she was from the upper classes, that she was married, that she was in Yalta for the first time, alone and bored. The accounts of the laxity of morals among visitors to Yalta are greatly exaggerated, and he paid no heed to them, knowing that for the most part they were invented by people who would gladly have transgressed themselves, had they known how to set about it. But when the lady sat down at a neighbouring table a few yards away from him, these stories of easy conquests, of excursions to the mountains, came back to him, and the seductive idea of a brisk transitory liaison, an affair with a woman whose very name he did not know, suddenly took possession of his mind. He snapped his fingers at the pomeranian, and when it trotted up to him, shook his forefinger at it. The pomeranian growled. Gurov shook his finger again. The lady glanced at him and instantly lowered her eyes. “He doesn’t bite,” she said, and blushed. “May I give him a bone?” he asked, and on her nod of consent added in friendly tones: “Have you been long in Yalta?” 72 33171 07 0071-0085.ps 4/26/06 12:42 PM Page 73 CHEKHOV / The Lady with the Dog “About five days.” “And I am dragging out my second week here.” Neither spoke for a few minutes. “The days pass quickly, and yet one is so bored here,” she said, not looking at him. “It’s the thing to say it’s boring here. People never complain of bore- dom in God-forsaken holes like Belyev or Zhizdra, but when they get here it’s: ‘Oh, the dullness! Oh, the dust!’ You’d think they’d come from Grenada to say the least of it.” She laughed. Then they both went on eating in silence, like com- plete strangers. But after dinner they left the restaurant together, and embarked upon the light, jesting talk of people free and contented, for whom it is all the same where they go, or what they talk about. They strolled along, remarking on the strange light over the sea. The water was a warm, tender purple, the moonlight lay on its surface in a golden strip. They said how close it was, after the hot day. Gurov told her he was from Moscow, that he was really a philologist, but worked in a bank; that he had at one time trained himself to sing in a private opera company, but had given up the idea; that he owned two houses in Moscow....And from her he learned that she had grown up in Petersburg, but had got married in the town of S., where she had been living two years, that she would stay another month in Yalta, and that perhaps her husband, who also needed a rest, would join her. She was quite unable to explain whether her husband was a member of the gubernia council, or on the board of the Zemstvo, and was greatly amused at herself for this. Fur- ther, Gurov learned that her name was Anna Sergeyevna. Back in his own room he thought about her, and felt sure he would meet her the next day. It was inevitable. As he went to bed he reminded himself that only a very short time ago she had been a schoolgirl, like his own daughter, learning her lessons; he remembered how much there was of shyness and constraint in her laughter, in her way of conversing with a stranger — it was probably the first time in her life that she found herself alone, and in a situation in which men could follow her and watch her, and speak to her, all the time with a secret aim she could not fail to divine. He recalled her slender, delicate neck, her fine grey eyes. “And yet there’s something pathetic about her,” he thought to himself as he fell asleep. II A week had passed since the beginning of their acquaintance. It was a holiday. Indoors it was stuffy, but the dust rose in clouds out of doors, 73 33171 07 0071-0085.ps 4/26/06 12:42 PM Page 74 CHEKHOV / The Lady with the Dog and people’s hats blew off. It was a thirsty day and Gurov kept going to the outdoor café for fruit-drinks and ices to offer Anna Sergeyevna. The heat was overpowering. In the evening, when the wind had dropped, they walked to the pier to see the steamer in. There were a great many people strolling about the landing-place; some, bunches of flowers in their hands, were meeting friends. Two peculiarities of the smart Yalta crowd stood out distinctly— the elderly ladies all tried to dress very young, and there seemed to be an inordinate number of generals about. Owing to the roughness of the sea the steamer arrived late, after the sun had gone down, and it had to manoeuvre for some time before it could get alongside the pier. Anna Sergeyevna scanned the steamer and passengers through her lorgnette, as if looking for someone she knew, and when she turned to Gurov her eyes were glistening.