And here is the Wannaskan Almanac for Word-Wednesday, April 24, 2019, the 17th Wednesday of the year, the 114th day of the year, with 251 days remaining.
Nordhem Lunch: Ham Dinner
Earth/Moon Almanac for April 24, 2019
Sunrise: 6:16am; Sunset: 8:28pm; 3 minutes, 18 seconds more daylight today
Moonrise: 1:23pm; Moonset: 9:58am, waning gibbous
Temperature Almanac for April 24, 2019
Average Record Today
High 56 77 68
Low 32 19 41
April 24 Local News Headline
Father Dav O’Malley ID Stolen During Easter Sunday Mass
April 24 Celebrations from National Day Calendar
Nordhem Lunch: Ham Dinner
Earth/Moon Almanac for April 24, 2019
Sunrise: 6:16am; Sunset: 8:28pm; 3 minutes, 18 seconds more daylight today
Moonrise: 1:23pm; Moonset: 9:58am, waning gibbous
Temperature Almanac for April 24, 2019
Average Record Today
High 56 77 68
Low 32 19 41
April 24 Local News Headline
Father Dav O’Malley ID Stolen During Easter Sunday Mass
April 24 Celebrations from National Day Calendar
- National Pigs in a Blanket Day
- National English Muffin Day
- National Administrative Professionals’ Day
- International Guide Dog Day
April 24 Riddle
What word of six letters contains six words, besides itself, without transposing its letters?*
April 24 Pun
Chamberpot Joe spent $300 on a limousine for his son’s wedding, only to discover that the fee doesn’t include a driver. He couldn’t believe that he’d spent all that money, with nothing to chauffeur it.
April 24 Punctuation Point
There was a time when one a writer's most flagrant expressions of contempt for her readers was to ignore punctuation altogether. Nowadays, the abundant use and misuse of the exclamation point has emerged as the most frequent form of writerly contempt - at least on social media. The use of more that one exclamation point in a sequence is surely inversely proportional to a writer's skill (and probably emotional IQ).
Like all good punctuation, the exclamation point should be used in moderation as follows.
At the end of a sentence:
As a mark of terminal punctuation, the exclamation mark should not be followed by a period or question mark. Trust your readers. When choosing between the exclamation mark and the question mark, go with the former.
Correct: You bought Founders Breakfast Stout instead of Guinness! Are you out of your mind!
Incorrect: You bought Founders Breakfast Stout instead of Guinness?! Are you out of your mind!?
Yes, there is the interrobang, ‽, a punctuation mark that combines the question mark and exclamation point. It does not even appear in the Microsoft Word symbol menu, and for reasons already explained, it is hardly needed.
In the middle of a sentence:
When a quotation ends with an exclamation point, the comma that ordinarily placed inside the closing quotation mark is omitted.
Correct: “Go back and get the Guinness,” Chamberpot Joe said.
Correct: “Go back and get the Guinness!” Chamberpot Joe yelled.
Incorrect: “Go back and get the Guinness!,” Chamberpot Joe yelled.
As part of a title of work:
Retain the comma if the exclamation point is part of a title of work or a proper noun.
Her April 13 Wannaskan Almanac post, “Kid Book Recommendations!," is her most whimsical yet.
After five years of using his email account with Yahoo!, Chamberpot Joe finally opened an account with Google.
|"You tend to overuse the exclamation point."|
April 24 Notable Historic Events, Literary or Otherwise, from On This Day
- 1184 BC The Greeks enter Troy using the Trojan Horse.
- 1800 US Library of Congress establishes with $5,000 allocation.
- 1891 First installment published of Sherlock Holmes adventure, Final Problem.
April 24 Author/Artist Birthdays, from On This Day
- 1766 Robert Bailey Thomas, American journalist and founder of The Farmer's Almanac.
- 1815 Anthony Trollope, English novelist and poet.
- 1883 Jaroslav Hašek, Czech writer, Brave Soldier Schweik.
- 1897 Benjamin Lee Whorf, American linguist.
- 1905 Robert Penn Warren, American poet and novelist, All the King's Men.
- 1907 Václav Trojan, Czech composer.
- 1916 Lou Thesz, American professional wrestler.
- 1928 Gustav Krivinka, Czech composer.
Words-I-Looked-Up-This-Week Writer's Challenge
Make a single sentence (or poem) from the following words:
- catenary: a curve formed by a wire, rope, or chain hanging freely from two points and forming a U shape.
- dishabille: the state of being only partly or scantily clothed.
- entrepôt: a port, city, or other center to which goods are brought for import and export, and for collection and distribution.
- hassock: an upholstered footstool or ottoman.
- ichor: the fluid that flows like blood in the veins of the gods.
- loofah: the fibrous interior of a fruit that resembles a marrow, dried and used as a sponge for washing the body.
- mésalliance: a marriage with a person thought to be unsuitable or of a lower social position.
- porringer: porringer: a small bowl, typically with a handle, used for soup, stew, or similar dishes.
- tabard: a sleeveless jerkin consisting only of front and back pieces with a hole for the head.
- skinkle: to glitter, glisten; to sparkle, twinkle.
April 24 Word-Wednesday Feature
Cujo (King), Winn-Dixie (Kate DiCamillo), White Fang (Jack London), The Hound of the Baskervilles (Conan Doyle), Nana (Peter Pan), Toto (Wizard of Oz), Fang (Harry Potter), Jip, (David Copperfield), Lassie (Eric Knight). Canines can become a story’s main protagonist, where these heart-wrenching non-human characters may often eclipse the name of the author who created them.
Then there’s Anton Chekhov, son of a grocer and grandson of a serf in Taganrog, a coastal town in southern Russia, who started writing humorous tales to put himself through medical school, eventually becoming one of Russia’s most esteemed playwrights - one who knew how to bait the reader, but who would never take a back seat to a dog. What follows is his 1899 short story, The Lady with the Dog, translated by Ivy Litvinov.
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 fortnight 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 promenade; 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 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 company 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 intimacy, 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?”
“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 boredom 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 complete 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. Further, 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.
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, 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. She talked a great deal, firing off abrupt questions and forgetting immediately what it was she had wanted to know. Then she lost her lorgnette in the crush.
The smart crowd began dispersing, features could no longer be made out, the wind had quite dropped, and Gurov and Anna Sergeyevna stood there as if waiting for someone else to come off the steamer. Anna Sergeyevna had fallen silent, every now and then smelling her flowers, but not looking at Gurov.
“It’s turning out a fine evening,” he said. “What shall we do? We might go for a drive.”
She made no reply.
He looked steadily at her and suddenly took her in his arms and kissed her lips, and the fragrance and dampness of the flowers closed round him, but the next moment he looked behind him in alarm — had anyone seen them?
“Let’s go to your room,” he murmured.
And they walked off together, very quickly.
Her room was stuffy and smelt of some scent she had bought in the Japanese shop. Gurov looked at her, thinking to himself: “How full of strange encounters life is!” He could remember carefree, good-natured women who were exhilarated by love-making and grateful to him for the happiness he gave them, however shortlived; and there had been others — his wife among them— whose caresses were insincere, affected, hysterical, mixed up with a great deal of quite unnecessary talk, and whose expression seemed to say that all this was not just love-making or passion, but something much more significant; then there had been two or three beautiful, cold women, over whose features flitted a predatory expression, betraying a determination to wring from life more than it could give, women no longer in their first youth, capricious, irrational, despotic, brainless, and when Gurov had cooled to these, their beauty aroused in him nothing but repulsion, and the lace trimming on their underclothes reminded him of fish-scales.
But here the timidity and awkwardness of youth and inexperience were still apparent; and there was a feeling of embarrassment in the atmosphere, as if someone had just knocked at the door. Anna Sergeyevna, “the lady with the dog,” seemed to regard the affair as something very special, very serious, as if she had become a fallen woman, an attitude he found odd and disconcerting. Her features lengthened and drooped, and her long hair hung mournfully on either side of her face. She assumed a pose of dismal meditation, like a repentant sinner in some classical painting.
“It isn’t right,” she said. “You will never respect me any more.”
On the table was a water-melon. Gurov cut himself a slice from it and began slowly eating it. At least half an hour passed in silence.
Anna Sergeyevna was very touching, revealing the purity of a decent, naive woman who had seen very little of life. The solitary candle burning on the table scarcely lit up her face, but it was obvious that her heart was heavy.
“Why should I stop respecting you?” asked Gurov. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“May God forgive me!” she exclaimed, and her eyes filled with tears. “It’s terrible.”
“No need to seek to justify yourself.”
“How can I justify myself? I’m a wicked, fallen woman, I despise myself and have not the least thought of self-justification. It isn’t my husband I have deceived, it’s myself. And not only now, I have been deceiving myself for ever so long. My husband is no doubt an honest, worthy man, but he’s a flunkey. I don’t know what it is he does at his office, but I know he’s a flunkey. I was only twenty when I married him, and I was devoured by curiosity, I wanted something higher. I told myself that there must be a different kind of life. I wanted to live, to live. I was burning with curiosity ... you’ll never understand that, but I swear to God I could no longer control myself, nothing could hold me back, I told my husband I was ill, and I came here. And I started going about like one possessed, like a madwoman ... and now I have become an ordinary, worthless woman, and everyone has the right to despise me.”
Gurov listened to her, bored to death. The naive accents, the remorse, all was so unexpected, so out of place. But for the tears in her eyes, she might have been jesting or play-acting.
“I don’t understand,” he said gently. “What is it you want?” She hid her face against his breast and pressed closer to him.
“Do believe me, I implore you to believe me,” she said. “I love all that is honest and pure in life, vice is revolting to me. I don’t know what I’m doing. The common people say they are snared by the devil. And now I can say that I have been snared by the devil, too.”
“Come, come,” he murmured.
He gazed into her fixed, terrified eyes, kissed her, and soothed her with gentle affectionate words, and gradually she calmed down and regained her cheerfulness. Soon they were laughing together again.
When, a little later, they went out, there was not a soul on the promenade, the town and its cypresses looked dead, but the sea was still roaring as it dashed against the beach. A solitary fishing-boat tossed on the waves, its lamp blinking sleepily.
They found a droshky and drove to Oreanda.
“I discovered your name in the hall, just now,” said Gurov, “written up on the board. Von Diederitz. Is your husband a German?”
“No. His grandfather was, I think, but he belongs to the Orthodox church himself.”
When they got out of the droshky at Oreanda they sat down on a bench not far from the church, and looked down at the sea, without talking. Yalta could be dimly discerned through the morning mist, and white clouds rested motionless on the summits of the mountains. Not a leaf stirred, the grasshoppers chirruped, and the monotonous hollow roar of the sea came up to them, speaking of peace, of the eternal sleep lying in wait for us all. The sea had roared like this long before there was any Yalta or Oreanda, it was roaring now, and it would go on roaring, just as indifferently and hollowly, when we had passed away. And it may be that in this continuity, this utter indifference to life and death, lies the secret of our ultimate salvation, of the stream of life on our planet, and of its never-ceasing movement towards perfection.
Side by side with a young woman, who looked so exquisite in the early light, soothed and enchanted by the sight of all this magical beauty — sea, mountains, clouds and the vast expanse of the sky — Gurov told himself that, when you came to think of it, everything in the world is beautiful really, everything but our own thoughts and actions, when we lose sight of the higher aims of life, and of our dignity as human beings.
Someone approached them — a watchman, probably — looked at them and went away. And there was something mysterious and beautiful even in this. The steamer from Feodosia could be seen coming towards the pier, lit up by the dawn, its lamps out.
“There’s dew on the grass,” said Anna Sergeyevna, breaking the silence.
“Yes. Time to go home.”
They went back to the town.
After this they met every day at noon on the promenade, lunching and dining together, going for walks, and admiring the sea. She complained of sleeplessness, of palpitations, asked the same questions over and over again, alternately surrendering to jealousy and the fear that he did not really respect her. And often, when there was nobody in sight in the square or the park, he would draw her to him and kiss her passionately.
The utter idleness, these kisses in broad daylight, accompanied by furtive glances and the fear of discovery, the heat, the smell of the sea, and the idle, smart, well-fed people continually crossing their field of vision, seemed to have given him a new lease on life. He told Anna Sergeyevna she was beautiful and seductive, made love to her with impetuous passion, and never left her side, while she was always pensive, always trying to force from him the admission that he did not respect her, that he did not love her a bit, and considered her just an ordinary woman. Almost every night they drove out of town, to Oreanda, the waterfall, or some other beauty-spot. And these excursions were invariably a success, each contributing fresh impressions of majestic beauty.
All this time they kept expecting her husband to arrive. But a letter came in which he told his wife that he was having trouble with his eyes, and implored her to come home as soon as possible. Anna Sergeyevna made hasty preparations for leaving.
“It’s a good thing I’m going,” she said to Gurov. “It’s the intervention of fate.”
She left Yalta in a carriage, and he went with her as far as the railway station. The drive took nearly a whole day. When she got into the express train, after the second bell had been rung, she said:
“Let me have one more look at you. One last look. That’s right.”
She did not weep, but was mournful, and seemed ill, the muscles of her cheeks twitching.
“I shall think of you. I shall think of you all the time,” she said. “God bless you! Think kindly of me. We are parting for ever, it must be so, because we ought never to have met. Good-bye — God bless you.”
The train steamed rapidly out of the station, its lights soon disappearing, and a minute later even the sound it made was silenced, as if everything were conspiring to bring this sweet oblivion, this madness, to an end as quickly as possible. And Gurov, standing alone on the platform and gazing into the dark distance, listened to the shrilling of the grasshoppers and the humming of the telegraph wires, with a feeling that he had only just waked up. And he told himself that this had been just one more of the many adventures in his life, and that it, too, was over, leaving nothing but a memory. He was moved and sad, and felt a slight remorse. After all, this young woman whom he would never again see had not been really happy with him. He had been friendly and affectionate with her, but in his whole behaviour, in the tones of his voice, in his very caresses, there had been a shade of irony, the insulting indulgence of the fortunate male, who was, moreover, almost twice her age. She had insisted in calling him good, remarkable, high-minded. Evidently he had appeared to her different from his real self, in a word he had involuntarily deceived her.
There was an autumnal feeling in the air, and the evening was chilly.
“It’s time for me to be going north, too,” thought Gurov, as he walked
away from the platform. “High time!”
When he got back to Moscow it was beginning to look like winter, the stoves were heated every day, and it was still dark when the children got up to go to school and drank their tea, so that the nurse had to light the lamp for a short time. Frost had set in. When the first snow falls, and one goes for one’s first sleigh-ride, it is pleasant to see the white ground, the white roofs; one breathes freely and lightly, and remembers the days of one’s youth. The ancient lime-trees and birches, white with rime, have a good-natured look, they are closer to the heart than cypresses and palms, and beneath their branches one is no longer haunted by the memory of mountains and the sea.
Gurov had always lived in Moscow, and he returned to Moscow on a fine frosty day, and when he put on his fur-lined overcoat and thick gloves, and sauntered down Petrovka Street, and when, on Saturday evening, he heard the church bells ringing, his recent journey and the places he had visited lost their charm for him. He became gradually immersed in Moscow life, reading with avidity three newspapers a day, while declaring he never read Moscow newspapers on principle. Once more he was caught up in a whirl of restaurants, clubs, banquets, and celebrations, once more glowed with the flattering consciousness that well-known lawyers and actors came to his house, that he played cards in the Medical Club opposite a professor.
He had believed that in a month’s time Anna Sergeyevna would be nothing but a wistful memory, and that hereafter, with her wistful smile, she would only occasionally appear to him in dreams, like others before her. But the month was now well over and winter was in full swing, and all was as clear in his memory as if he had only parted with Anna Sergeyevna the day before. And his recollections grew ever more insistent. When the voices of his children at their lessons reached him in his study through the evening stillness, when he heard a song, or the sounds of a musical-box in a restaurant, when the wind howled in the chimney, it all came back to him: early morning on the pier, the misty mountains, the steamer from Feodosia, the kisses. He would pace up and down his room for a long time, smiling at his memories, and then memory turned into dreaming, and what had happened mingled in his imagination with what was going to happen. Anna Sergeyevna did not come to him in his dreams, she accompanied him everywhere, like his shadow, following him everywhere he went. When he closed his eyes, she seemed to stand before him in the flesh, still lovelier, younger, tenderer than she had really been, and looking back, he saw himself, too, as better than he had been in Yalta. In the evenings she looked out at him from the bookshelves, the fireplace, the corner, he could hear her breathing, the sweet rustle of her skirts. In the streets he followed women with his eyes, to see if there were any like her.
He began to feel an overwhelming desire to share his memories with someone. But he could not speak of his love at home, and outside his home who was there for him to confide in? Not the tenants living in his house, and certainly not his colleagues at the bank. And what was there to tell? Was it love that he had felt? Had there been anything exquisite, poetic, anything instructive or even amusing about his relations with Anna Sergeyevna? He had to content himself with uttering vague gener- alizations about love and women, and nobody guessed what he meant, though his wife’s dark eyebrows twitched as she said:
“The role of a coxcomb doesn’t suit you a bit, Dimitri.”
One evening, leaving the Medical Club with one of his card-partners, a government official, he could not refrain from remarking:
“If you only knew what a charming woman I met in Yalta!”
The official got into his sleigh, and just before driving off turned and called out:
“You were quite right, you know — the sturgeon was just a leetle off.”
These words, in themselves so commonplace, for some reason infuriated Gurov, seemed to him humiliating, gross. What savage manners, what people! What wasted evenings, what tedious, empty days! Frantic card-playing, gluttony, drunkenness, perpetual talk always about the same thing. The greater part of one’s time and energy went on business that was no use to anyone, and on discussing the same thing over and over again, and there was nothing to show for it all but a stunted, earthbound existence and a round of trivialities, and there was nowhere to escape to, you might as well be in a mad-house or a convict settlement.
Gurov lay awake all night, raging, and went about the whole of the next day with a headache. He slept badly on the succeeding nights, too, sitting up in bed, thinking, or pacing the floor of his room. He was sick of his children, sick of the bank, felt not the slightest desire to go anywhere or talk about anything.
When the Christmas holidays came, he packed his things, telling his wife he had to go to Petersburg in the interests of a certain young man, and set off for the town of S. To what end? He hardly knew himself. He only knew that he must see Anna Sergeyevna, must speak to her, arrange a meeting, if possible.
He arrived at S. in the morning and engaged the best room in the hotel, which had a carpet of grey military frieze, and a dusty ink pot on the table, surmounted by a headless rider, holding his hat in his raised hand. The hall porter told him what he wanted to know: von Diederitz had a house of his own in Staro-Goncharnaya Street. It wasn’t far from the hotel, he lived on a grand scale, luxuriously, kept carriage-horses, the whole town knew him. The hall porter pronounced the name “Drideritz.”
Gurov strolled over to Staro-Goncharnaya Street and discovered the house. In front of it was a long grey fence with inverted nails hammered into the tops of the palings.
“A fence like that is enough to make anyone want to run away,” thought Gurov, looking at the windows of the house and the fence.
He reasoned that since it was a holiday, her husband would probably be at home. In any case it would be tactless to embarrass her by calling at the house. And a note might fall into the hands of the husband, and bring about catastrophe. The best thing would be to wait about on the chance of seeing her. And he walked up and down the street, hovering in the vicinity of the fence, watching for his chance. A beggar entered the gate, only to be attacked by dogs, then, an hour later, the faint, vague sounds of a piano reached his ears. That would be Anna Sergeyevna playing. Suddenly the front door opened and an old woman came out, followed by a familiar white pomeranian. Gurov tried to call to it, but his heart beat violently, and in his agitation he could not remember its name.
He walked on, hating the grey fence more and more, and now ready to tell himself irately that Anna Sergeyevna had forgotten him, had already, perhaps, found distraction in another — what could be more natural in a young woman who had to look at this accursed fence from morning to night? He went back to his hotel and sat on the sofa in his room for some time, not knowing what to do, then he ordered dinner, and after dinner, had a long sleep.
“What a foolish, restless business,” he thought, waking up and looking towards the dark window-panes. It was evening by now. “Well, I’ve had my sleep out. And what am I to do in the night?”
He sat up in bed, covered by the cheap grey quilt, which reminded him of a hospital blanket, and in his vexation he fell to taunting himself.
“You and your lady with a dog ... there’s adventure for you! See what you get for your pains.”
On his arrival at the station that morning he had noticed a poster announcing in enormous letters the first performance at the local theatre of The Geisha. Remembering this, he got up and made for the theatre.
“It’s highly probable that she goes to first-nights,” he told himself.
The theatre was full. It was a typical provincial theatre, with a mist collecting over the chandeliers, and the crowd in the gallery fidgeting noisily. In the first row of the stalls the local dandies stood waiting for the curtain to go up, their hands clasped behind them. There, in the front seat of the Governor’s box, sat the Governor’s daughter, wearing a boa, the Governor himself hiding modestly behind the drapes, so that only his hands were visible. The curtain stirred, the orchestra took a long time tuning up their instruments. Gurov’s eyes roamed eagerly over the audience as they filed in and occupied their seats.
Anna Sergeyevna came in, too. She seated herself in the third row of the stalls, and when Gurov’s glance fell on her, his heart seemed to stop, and he knew in a flash that the whole world contained no one nearer or dearer to him, no one more important to his happiness. This little woman, lost in the provincial crowd, in no way remarkable, holding a silly lorgnette in her hand, now filled his whole life, was his grief, his joy, all that he desired. Lulled by the sounds coming from the wretched orchestra, with its feeble, amateurish violinists, he thought how beautiful she was ... thought and dreamed.
Anna Sergeyevna was accompanied by a tall, round-shouldered young man with small whiskers, who nodded at every step before taking the seat beside her and seemed to be continually bowing to someone. This must be her husband, whom, in a fit of bitterness, at Yalta, she had called a “flunkey.” And there really was something of the lackey’s servility in his lanky figure, his side-whiskers, and the little bald spot on the top of his head. And he smiled sweetly, and the badge of some scientific society gleaming in his buttonhole was like the number on a footman’s livery.
The husband went out to smoke in the first interval, and she was left alone in her seat. Gurov, who had taken a seat in the stalls, went up to her and said in a trembling voice, with a forced smile: “How d’you do?”
She glanced up at him and turned pale, then looked at him again in alarm, unable to believe her eyes, squeezing her fan and lorgnette in one hand, evidently struggling to overcome a feeling of faintness. Neither of them said a word. She sat there, and he stood beside her, disconcerted by her embarrassment, and not daring to sit down. The violins and flutes sang out as they were tuned, and there was a tense sensation in the atmosphere, as if they were being watched from all the boxes. At last she got up and moved rapidly towards one of the exits. He followed her and they wandered aimlessly along corridors, up and down stairs; figures flashed by in the uniforms of legal officials, high-school teachers and civil servants, all wearing badges; ladies, coats hanging from pegs flashed by; there was a sharp draught, bringing with it an odour of cigarette stubs. And Gurov, whose heart was beating violently, thought:
“What on earth are all these people, this orchestra for?”
The next minute he suddenly remembered how, after seeing Anna Sergeyevna off that evening at the station, he had told himself that all was over, and they would never meet again. And how far away the end seemed to be now!
She stopped on a dark narrow staircase over which was a notice bearing the inscription “To the upper circle.”
“How you frightened me!” she said, breathing heavily, still pale and half stunned. “Oh, how you frightened me! I’m almost dead! Why did you come? Oh, why?”
“But, Anna,” he said, in low, hasty tones. “But, Anna. Try to understand ... do try.”
She cast him a glance of fear, entreaty, love, and then gazed at him steadily, as if to fix his features firmly in her memory.
“I’ve been so unhappy,” she continued, taking no notice of his words. “I could think of nothing but you the whole time, I lived on the thoughts of you. I tried to forget — why, oh, why did you come?”
On the landing above them were two schoolboys, smoking and looking down, but Gurov did not care, and, drawing Anna Sergeyevna towards him, began kissing her face, her lips, her hands.
“What are you doing, oh, what are you doing?” she said in horror, drawing back. “We have both gone mad. Go away this very night, this moment. By all that is sacred, I implore you. Somebody is coming.”
Someone was ascending the stairs.
“You must go away,” went on Anna Sergeyevna in a whisper. “D’you hear me, Dmitri Dmitrich? I’ll come to you in Moscow. I have never been happy, I am unhappy now, and I shall never be happy — never! Do not make me suffer still more! I will come to you in Moscow, I swear it! And now we must part! My dear one, my kind one, my darling, we must part.”
She pressed his hand and hurried down the stairs, looking back at him continually, and her eyes showed that she was in truth unhappy. Gurov stood where he was for a short time, listening, and when all was quiet went to look for his coat, and left the theatre. And Anna Sergeyevna began going to Moscow to see him. Every two or three months she left the town of S., telling her husband that she was going to consult a specialist on female diseases, and her husband believed her and did not believe her. In Moscow she always stayed at the “Slavyanski Bazaar,” sending a man in a red cap to Gurov the moment she arrived. Gurov went to her, and no one in Moscow knew anything about it.
One winter morning he went to see her as usual (the messenger had been to him the evening before, but had not found him at home). His daughter was with him for her school was on the way, and he thought he might as well see her to it.
“It is three degrees above zero,” said Gurov to his daughter, “and yet it is snowing. You see it is only above zero close to the ground, the temperature in the upper layers of the atmosphere is quite different.”
“Why doesn’t it ever thunder in winter, Papa?”
He explained this, too. As he was speaking, he kept reminding himself that he was going to a rendezvous and that not a living soul knew about it, or, probably, ever would. He led a double life — one in public, in the sight of all whom it concerned, full of conventional truth and conventional deception, exactly like the lives of his friends and acquaintances, and another which flowed in secret. And, owing to some strange, possibly quite accidental chain of circumstances, everything that was important, interesting, essential, everything about which he was sincere and never deceived himself, everything that composed the kernel of his life, went on in secret, while everything that was false in him, everything that composed the husk in which he hid himself and the truth which was in him — his work at the bank, discussions at the club, his “lower race,” his attendance at anniversary celebrations with his wife — was on the surface. He began to judge others by himself, no longer believing what he saw, and always assuming that the real, the only interesting life of every individual goes on as under cover of night, secretly. Every individual existence revolves around mystery, and perhaps that is the chief reason that all cultivated individuals insisted so strongly on the respect due to personal secrets.
After leaving his daughter at the door of her school Gurov set off for the “Slavyanski Bazaar.” Taking off his overcoat in the lobby, he went upstairs and knocked softly on the door. Anna Sergeyevna, wearing the grey dress he liked most, exhausted by her journey and by suspense, had been expecting him since the evening before. She was pale and looked at him without smiling, but was in his arms almost before he was fairly in the room. Their kiss was lingering, prolonged, as if they had not met for years.
“Well, how are you?” he asked. “Anything new?”
“Wait, I’ll tell you in a minute. I can’t.”
She could not speak, because she was crying. Turning away, she held her handkerchief to her eyes.
“I’ll wait till she’s had her cry out,” he thought, and sank into a chair.
He rang for tea, and a little later, while he was drinking it, she was still standing there, her face to the window. She wept from emotion, from her bitter consciousness of the sadness of their life; they could only see one another in secret, hiding from people, as if they were thieves. Was not their life a broken one?
“Don’t cry,” he said.
It was quite obvious to him that this love of theirs would not soon come to an end, and that no one could say when this end would be. Anna Sergeyevna loved him ever more fondly, worshipped him, and there would have been no point in telling her that one day it must end. Indeed, she would not have believed him.
He moved over and took her by the shoulders, intending to fondle her with light words, but suddenly he caught sight of himself in the looking glass.
His hair was already beginning to turn grey. It struck him as strange that he should have aged so much in the last few years. The shoulders on which his hands lay were warm and quivering. He felt a pity for this life, still so warm and exquisite, but probably soon to fade and droop like his own. Why did she love him so? Women had always believed him different from what he really was, had loved in him not himself but the man their imagination pictured him, a man they had sought for eagerly all their lives. And afterwards when they discovered their mistake, they went on loving him just the same. And not one of them had ever been happy with him. Time had passed, he had met one woman after another, become intimate with each, parted with each, but had never loved. There had been all sorts of things between them, but never love.
And only now, when he was grey-haired, had he fallen in love properly, thoroughly, for the first time in his life.
He and Anna Sergeyevna loved one another as people who are very close and intimate, as husband and wife, as dear friends love one another. It seemed to them that fate had intended them for one another, and they could not understand why she should have a husband, and he a wife. They were like two migrating birds, the male and the female, who had been caught and put into separate cages. They forgave one another all that they were ashamed of in the past, in their present, and felt that this love of theirs had changed them both.
Formerly, in moments of melancholy, he had consoled himself by the first argument that came into his head, but now arguments were nothing to him, he felt profound pity, desired to be sincere, tender.
“Stop crying, my dearest,” he said. “You’ve had your cry, now stop. Now let us have a talk, let us try and think what we are to do.”
Then they discussed their situation for a long time, trying to think how they could get rid of the necessity for hiding, deception, living in different towns, being so long without meeting. How were they to shake off these intolerable fetters?
“How? How?” he repeated, clutching his head. “How?”
And it seemed to them that they were within an inch of arriving at a decision, and that then a new, beautiful life would begin. And they both realized that the end was still far, far away, and that the hardest, the most complicated part was only just beginning.
Be better than yesterday, learn a new word today, try to stay out of trouble - at least until tomorrow, and write when you have the time.