The Tales of Chekhov, vol 3 | Page 3

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.
"Let us go to your hotel," he said softly. And both walked quickly.
The room was close and smelt of the scent she had bought at the
Japanese shop. Gurov looked at her and thought: "What different
people one meets in the world!" From the past he preserved memories
of careless, good-natured 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--"the lady with the dog"--to what had
happened was somehow peculiar, very 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 "the woman who was
a sinner" in an old-fashioned picture.
"It's wrong," she said. "You will be the first to despise me now."
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.
"How could I despise you?" asked Gurov. "You don't know what you
are saying."
"God forgive me," she said, and her eyes filled with tears. "It's awful."
"You seem to feel you need to be forgiven."
"Forgiven? No. I am a bad, low woman; I despise myself and don't
attempt to 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 naïve
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.
"I don't understand," he said softly. "What is it you want?"
She hid her face on his breast and pressed close to him.
"Believe me, believe me, I beseech you . . ." she said. "I love a pure,
honest life, 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."
"Hush, hush! . . ." he muttered.
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;