The Lady with the Little Dog
Chekhov’s most famous story adapted for audio
A new person had appeared on the sea-front: a lady with a little dog. Dmitri Gurov, who had been a week in Yalta, was taking an interest in new arrivals. From his hotel balcony, he saw, walking on the seafront, a fair-haired young lady of medium height, wearing a béret; a white Pomeranian dog was running behind her.
And afterwards he met her in the public gardens and in the square several times a day. She was walking alone, always wearing the same béret, and always with the same white dog. No one knew who she was, and every one called her simply “the lady with the dog.”
“If she is here alone without a husband or friends, perhaps I could make her acquaintance,” Gurov reflected.
He was under forty, had a daughter already twelve years old, and two sons at school. He had married young, when he was a student in his second year. His wife was a tall, erect woman with dark eyebrows, staid and dignified, and, as she said of herself, intellectual.
He secretly considered her unintelligent, narrow, inelegant. He was also afraid of her, and did not like to be at home.
He had begun being unfaithful to her long ago — had been unfaithful to her often. He almost always spoke ill of women, when they were talked about in his presence. He used to call them “the inferior sex,” but could not survive two consecutive days without them.
In the society of men Gurov was bored and not himself, with them he was cold and uncommunicative. But when he was in the company of women he felt free and knew what to say to them and how to behave.
In Gurov’s appearance, in his character, in his whole nature, there was something attractive and elusive which allured women and disposed them in his favour. At at every fresh meeting with an interesting woman he was eager for life, and everything seemed simple and amusing.
One evening he was dining in the gardens when the lady in the béret came up slowly to take the next table. Her expression, her gait, her dress, and the way she did her hair, told him that she was a lady, that she was married, that she was in Yalta for the first time and alone, and that she was bored there.
The tempting thought of a swift, fleeting love affair, a romance with an unknown woman, suddenly took possession of him. He beckoned coaxingly to the Pomeranian, and when the dog came up to him he shook his finger at it. The Pomeranian growled: Gurov shook his finger again.
The lady looked at him and at once dropped her eyes.
“He doesn’t bite,” she said, and blushed.
“May I give him a bone?” he asked; and when she nodded he said, “Have you been long in Yalta?”
“Five days.”
“And I have already dragged out a fortnight here.”
They laughed and there was a brief silence.
“Time goes fast, and yet it is so dull here!” she said, not looking at him.
Then both continued eating in silence, like strangers, but after dinner they walked side by side. and there sprang up between them the light jesting conversation of people who are free and satisfied, to whom it does not matter where they go or what they talk about.
They walked and talked of the strange light on the sea: the golden streak from the moon upon it. They talked of how sultry it was after a hot day. Gurov told her that he came from Moscow and that he had taken his degree in Arts — but now had a post in a bank. That he had trained as an opera-singer — but had given it up. That he owned two houses in Moscow. . .
And from her he learnt that she had grown up in Petersburg, but had lived in S — — since her marriage two years before. That she was staying another month in Yalta, and that her husband, a civil servant, might perhaps come and fetch her.
And Gurov learnt, too, that she was called Anna Sergeyevna.
Afterwards he thought about her in his room at the hotel — thought she would certainly meet him next day; it would be sure to happen. As he got into bed he thought how recently she had been a girl at school, doing lessons like his own daughter. He recalled her slender, delicate neck, her lovely grey eyes.
“There’s something pathetic about her, anyway,” he thought, as he fell asleep.
Read the complete original story at Project Gutenberg for free here. My adaptation has stayed very close to the Constance Garnett translation — changes mostly for length. The full original text an approximate 33 minute read. Please indicate in the comments if you would like me to complete this audio version.
