for him there was in the whole world no creature so
near, so precious, and so important to him; she, this little woman,
in no way remarkable, lost in a provincial crowd, with a vulgar
lorgnette in her hand, filled his whole life now, was his sorrow
and his joy, the one happiness that he now desired for himself, and
to the sounds of the inferior orchestra, of the wretched provincial
violins, he thought how lovely she was. He thought and dreamed.

A young man with small side-whiskers, tall and stooping, came in
with Anna Sergeyevna and sat down beside her; he bent his head at
every step and seemed to be continually bowing. Most likely this
was the husband whom at Yalta, in a rush of bitter feeling, she had
called a flunkey. And there really was in his long figure, his
side-whiskers, and the small bald patch on his head, something of
the flunkey's obsequiousness; his smile was sugary, and in his
buttonhole there was some badge of distinction like the number on
a waiter.

During the first interval the husband went away to smoke; she
remained alone in her stall. Gurov, who was sitting in the stalls,
too, went up to her and said in a trembling voice, with a forced
smile:

"Good-evening."

She glanced at him and turned pale, then glanced again with horror,
unable to believe her eyes, and tightly gripped the fan and the
lorgnette in her hands, evidently struggling with herself not to
faint. Both were silent. She was sitting, he was standing, frightened
by her confusion and not venturing to sit down beside her. The
violins and the flute began tuning up. He felt suddenly frightened;
it seemed as though all the people in the boxes were looking at
them. She got up and went quickly to the door; he followed her, and
both walked senselessly along passages, and up and down stairs, and
figures in legal, scholastic, and civil service uniforms, all wearing
badges, flitted before their eyes. They caught glimpses of ladies,
of fur coats hanging on pegs; the draughts blew on them, bringing
a smell of stale tobacco. And Gurov, whose heart was beating
violently, thought:

"Oh, heavens! Why are these people here and this orchestra! . . ."

And at that instant he recalled how when he had seen Anna Sergeyevna
off at the station he had thought that everything was over and they
would never meet again. But how far they were still from the end!

On the narrow, gloomy staircase over which was written "To the
Amphitheatre," she stopped.

"