‘Lady with a Little Dog’ (Continued)

III

Back home in Moscow, everything already felt like winter: the stoves had been lit, and

when the children were getting ready for school and drinking tea in the morning, it was

dark and Nanny lit the lamp for a short time. The frosts had begun. On the first day of

snow, when sledges come out for the first time, it is pleasant to see the white ground and

white roofs, the air you breathe is gloriously soft, and you’re reminded then of days when

you were young. The old limes and birches, white with hoar frost, have a kindly

expression, they are closer to one’s heart than palms and cypresses, and when you are near

them, you have no wish to go on thinking about mountains and the sea.

Gurov was a Muscovite, he arrived back in Moscow on a fine frosty day, and when he

put on his fur coat and warm gloves and strolled along the Petrovka, and when he heard

the sound of the church bells on Saturday evening, his recent trip and the places he had

visited lost all their attraction for him. He gradually immersed himself in Moscow life,

before long he was greedily devouring three newspapers a day and saying he didn’t read

the Moscow papers on principle. Already he felt drawn to clubs and restaurants, to dinner

parties and jubilee celebrations, and felt flattered to be entertaining well-known lawyers

and artists at his house, and to be playing cards with a Professor at the Doctors’ Club.

Already he could polish off a whole portion of Moscow hotpot from the pan…

A month or so would pass, he thought, and Anna Sergeyevna would cloud over in his

memory, and only occasionally would he dream of her and her touching smile, just as he

dreamed of the others. But more than a month went by, they were deep into winter, and

he remembered everything as clearly as if he had parted from Anna Sergeyevna only

yesterday. And his memories became more and more vivid. If the sound of the children’s

voices preparing their lessons reached him in his study in the quiet of an evening, or he

heard a love song, or an organ playing in a restaurant, or a snowstorm started whining in

the chimney – then suddenly everything would come alive in his memory: that time on the

pier… early morning mist over the mountains… the steamer from Theodosia… and the

kisses. He would walk for a long time round his room, remembering and smiling, then his

memories would turn into daydreams, and in his imagination what had happened mingled

with what lay ahead. Anna Sergeyevna did not appear in his dreams, she was behind him

everywhere like a shadow following him around. When he closed his eyes, he could see her

for real, and she seemed more beautiful, younger and more tender than she had been; and

he himself seemed better to himself than he had been back then in Yalta. In the evenings

she was looking at him from the bookcase, from the fireplace, from the corner of the room,

he could hear her breathing, the soft rustle of her dress. In the street he stared after

women to see if any of them looked like her…

And he was tormented now by a strong desire to share his recollections with someone.

But he couldn’t talk to anyone at home about his love, and outside there was no one.

Certainly not with his tenants and not at the bank. And what would he say? Had he really

felt love then? Had there really been anything beautiful, poetic, or instructive, or simply

interesting, about his relations with Anna Sergeyevna? And he had to speak vaguely about

love and women, and no one guessed what it was all about, and his wife would simply

twitch her dark eyebrows and say: ‘The role of lady’s man doesn’t suit you at all,

Demetrius.’

One night, coming out of the Doctors’ Club with his partner at cards, a civil servant, he

could not restrain himself and said: ‘You can’t imagine what an enchanting woman I got to

know in Yalta’.

The civil servant climbed into his sledge and drove off, but suddenly turned round and

shouted: ‘Dmitrii Dmitrych!’

‘Yes?’

‘You were right just now about the sturgeon: it was a bit off!’

For some reason these everyday words suddenly made Gurov feel indignant, they

struck him as coarse and degrading. What barbaric ways of behaving, what people!

Meaningless nights, boring, uneventful days! Frantic card-playing, eating and drinking too

much, repeated conversations on the same old topics. These useless activities and

conversations monopolise the best part of our time, our best energies, and what we’re

finally left with is a stunted, barren kind of life, some kind of garbage, and you can’t get

away and escape, it’s like being in a madhouse or a forced labour squad!

Gurov lay awake all night feeling worked up and all next day he had a headache. On

the following nights he also slept badly, sitting up in bed all the time thinking, or walking

from corner to corner of the room. He was bored with his children, with the bank, he

didn’t want to go anywhere or talk about anything.

In December during the holiday period he made preparations for a trip, telling his wife

he was going to St Petersburg to lobby on behalf of a certain young man – and left for the

town of S. For what reason? He himself did not really know. He wanted to see Anna

Sergeyevna and have a talk with her, arrange a meeting if possible.

He arrived in S. in the morning and took the best room in the hotel. The floor was

completely covered with grey military cloth and on the table stood an inkwell, grey with

dust, which showed a man on horseback, holding his hat aloft but with his head broken

off. The porter gave him the information he needed: von Diederitz lives on Old

Goncharnaya Street, in his own house, it’s not far from the hotel, he lives in grand style,

has his own horses, everyone in town knows him. The porter pronounced the name

Dreedyritz.

Gurov took his time walking along to Old Goncharnaya Street and located the house. A

long grey fence topped with nails ran the whole length of its front. ‘You’d want to run away

from a fence like that,’ thought Gurov, glancing up at the windows, then at the fence.

As government offices were closed that day, he reasoned that the husband would

probably be at home. In any case it would be tactless to go into the house and cause an

upset. If he sent a note, it might fall into the husband’s hands and that could spoil

everything. The best thing would be to rely on chance. He kept walking up and down the

street and by the fence waiting for such a chance to arise. He watched a beggar enter the

gates and be set upon by the dogs, then, an hour later, the sounds of someone playing the

piano reached him, faint and unclear. That must be Anna Sergeyevna. The front door

suddenly opened and an old woman came out, with the familiar white Pom running

behind her. Gurov wanted to call the dog, but his heart suddenly began thumping and in

his agitation he couldn’t remember the Pom’s name.

He walked up and down, hating the grey fence more and more, and feeling annoyed by

the thought that Anna Sergeyevna had forgotten him and might already be amusing

herself with someone else, and this would be only too natural if you were a young woman

forced to look at that damned fence from morning to evening. He went back to his hotel

room and sat for a long time on the sofa, not knowing what to do, then had a meal, then a

long sleep.

‘How stupid and disturbing all this is,’ he thought, on waking up and seeing the dark

windows: it was already evening. ‘Now for some reason I’ve gone and overslept. So what

am I going to do when night comes?’ Sitting on the bed, which was covered by a cheap grey

blanket like one in a hospital, he taunted himself in his vexation: ‘You and your lady with a

little dog… You and your adventure… Now look where you’ve landed yourself.’

At the station that morning his attention had been caught by a poster advertising in

huge capitals the opening night of The Geisha. He remembered this and set off for the

theatre. ‘More than likely,’ he thought, ‘she attends first nights.’

The theatre was full. And here, as in all provincial theatres generally, there was fog

above the chandelier, and a noisy hubbub coming from the gallery; before the performance

began the local dandies were standing in the front row, hands clasped behind their backs;

and over there in the Governor’s box, the Governor’s daughter was sitting in the front

seat wearing a boa, while the Governor himself was modestly concealed behind the

portiere, and only his hands were visible; the curtain kept swaying, and the orchestra

spent a long time tuning up. As the audience was coming in and occupying their seats,

Gurov eagerly studied every face.

In came Anna Sergeyevna. She sat down in the third row, and when Gurov looked at

her, his heart missed a beat, and he understood clearly that she was the nearest, dearest,

and most important person in the world for him now; this little woman, lost in the

provincial crowd, not remarkable in any way, holding a cheap lorgnette, now filled his

whole life, was his joy and sorrow and the one happiness that he now longed for; and to

the sounds of this bad orchestra, of these dreadful provincial violins, he thought how

beautiful she was. Thought and dreamed.

A young man had come in with Anna Sergeyevna and sat down next to her. He had

short side whiskers, and was very tall and stooping; with each step he took he nodded his

head and seemed to be forever bowing. This was probably the husband she had referred to,

in a bitter outburst back in Yalta, as a ‘lackey’. And indeed, his tall figure, his side whiskers

and his small bald patch all suggested a lackey’s modest bearing, he had a sugary smile,

and the badge of some kind of learned society gleaming in his buttonhole looked like a

lackey’s hotel number.

In the first interval the husband went out for a smoke, while she remained in her seat.

Gurov, who was also sitting in the stalls, went up to her and said in a shaky voice, forcing a

smile:

‘Good evening.’

She looked at him and turned pale, then looked at him again in horror, unable to

believe her eyes, and seized tight hold of her fan and lorgnette, clearly struggling not to

faint. Neither of them spoke. She was sitting, he standing, scared by her confusion and

unsure whether or not to sit down next to her. The violins and the flute began tuning up,

there was a sudden sense of panic, it felt as if they were being watched from every box. But

now she got to her feet and made quickly for the exit; he followed, and they walked along

corridors and up staircases at random, now up, now down, various people flashing before

their eyes, in the uniforms of lawyers or teachers or crown employees, and all with their

insignia; ladies flashed past, fur coats were hanging on pegs, a draught brought the smell

of cigarette ends. And Gurov, whose heart was beating fast, thought: ‘Oh Lord, why are all

these people here, this orchestra…’

At that moment he suddenly recalled that evening at the station when he’d said

goodbye to Anna Sergeyevna and had said to himself that everything was over and they

would not see each other again. But the end was still such a long way off!

On a gloomy narrow staircase saying ‘Circle’ she stopped.

‘What a fright you gave me!’ she said, breathing heavily and still pale and shaken. ‘I

nearly died. Why did you come? Why?’

‘Understand me, Anna, understand me…’ he said hastily in a low voice. ‘Understand

me, I beg you…’

She was looking at him fearfully, pleadingly, lovingly, looking at him intently, so as to

fix his features more firmly in her memory.

‘Oh how I’m suffering!’ she went on, not listening to him. ‘All this time I’ve done

nothing but think about you, thinking about you kept me alive. And I wanted to forget,

forget, but why did you come, why?’

On a landing up above two schoolboys were smoking and looking down, but Gurov

didn’t care, he drew Anna Sergeyevna towards him, and began kissing her face, her cheeks,

her hands.

‘What are you doing, what are you doing!’ she said in horror, pushing him away from

her. ‘You and I have gone mad. You must go away today, go away now… By all that’s holy, I

beseech you, I beg you… There’s someone coming!’

Someone was coming up the staircase from down below.

‘You must go,’ Anna Sergeyevna went on in a whisper. ‘Do you hear, Dmitrii Dmitrich?

I’ll come to see you in Moscow. I’ve never been happy, I’m unhappy now, and I’m never

going to be happy, never! Don’t make me suffer even more! I’ll come to Moscow, I swear it.

But now we must part! My good kind dear one, we must part!’

She pressed his hand and began going swiftly downstairs, all the time looking round at

him, and her eyes showed how unhappy she really was. Gurov stood there briefly, listened

until everything had gone quiet, then found his peg and left the theatre.

(To be concluded)

Happy Christmas from Calderonia / Sam&Sam!

SOME RESPONSES TO GEORGE CALDERON: EDWARDIAN GENIUS

‘This meticulous yet nimble book is bound to remain the definitive account of Calderon’s life’ Charlotte Jones, The Times Literary Supplement

‘The effort of detection, it must be said, was worth it. The biography is a delight to read.’ Emeritus Professor Laurence Brockliss, The London Magazine

‘It is a masterly synthesis of your own approach with scholarship and very judicious discussion of the evidence.’ Emeritus Professor Catherine Andreyev, historian

‘This comprehensive, meticulously researched and highly readable biography, which the author describes as a “story” rather than an academic biography…’ Michael Pursglove, East-West Review

‘A monumental scholarly masterpiece that gives real insight into how the Edwardians viewed the world.’Arch Tait, Translator of Natalya Rzhevskaya’s Memoirs of a Wartime Interpreter

‘The book is written with great assurance and the reader always feels in safe hands. I liked the idea of it being a story and I read it the same way I would read a novel.’ Harvey Pitcher, writer

‘Presents the Edwardian age, and Calderon in particular, as new and forward-looking.’ Emeritus Professor Michael Alexander, in Trinity College, Oxford, Report 2017-18

A review by DAMIAN GRANT appears in the comments to Calderonia’s 7 September post.

A review by JOHN DEWEY appears on Amazon UK.