The Lady with the Little Dog and Other Stories, 1896-1904

Father has aged terribly and become round-shouldered. In the evenings he takes a little stroll near his house. I never go and see him.

During the cholera epidemic Prokofy treated the shopkeepers with pepper-brandy and tar, and took money for it. As I later learnt from our newspaper, he was flogged for saying nasty things about doctors in his butcher’s stall. Nikolka, the boy who helped him, died of cholera. Karpovna is still alive and, as ever, loves and fears her Prokofy. Whenever she sees me she shakes her head sadly.

‘You’re finished, you poor devil!’ she says, sighing.

On weekdays I’m usually busy from morning to night. On holidays, when the weather is fine, I pick up my little niece (my sister was expecting a boy, but she had a girl) and walk, taking my time, to the cemetery. There I stand or sit down and gaze for a long time at the grave that is so dear to me, and I tell the little girl that her mother lies there.

Sometimes I meet Anyuta Blagovo at the graveside. We greet one another and stand in silence, or we talk about Cleopatra, about the little girl, and about the sadness of life. Then we leave the cemetery and walk silently – she walks slowly, so that she can stay next to me as long as possible. The little girl, happy and joyful, screws up her eyes in the bright sunlight and laughs as she stretches her small hands out towards me. We stop and together we fondle that dear little girl.

As we enter the town, Anyuta Blagovo becomes agitated and she blushes as she says goodbye and walks on alone, solemn and demure. And no one in that street looking at her now would have thought that only a moment ago she had been walking at my side and had even fondled that little child.