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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 216 pages of information about The Lady with the Dog and Other Stories.

She listened and looked into his face; her eyes were sorrowful and intelligent, and it was evident she wanted to say something to him.

“Does this happen to you often?” he said.

She moved her lips, and answered: 

“Often, I feel wretched almost every night.”

At that moment the watchman in the yard began striking two o’clock.  They heard:  “Dair . . . dair . . .” and she shuddered.

“Do those knockings worry you?” he asked.

“I don’t know.  Everything here worries me,” she answered, and pondered.  “Everything worries me.  I hear sympathy in your voice; it seemed to me as soon as I saw you that I could tell you all about it.”

“Tell me, I beg you.”

“I want to tell you of my opinion.  It seems to me that I have no illness, but that I am weary and frightened, because it is bound to be so and cannot be otherwise.  Even the healthiest person can’t help being uneasy if, for instance, a robber is moving about under his window.  I am constantly being doctored,” she went on, looking at her knees, and she gave a shy smile.  “I am very grateful, of course, and I do not deny that the treatment is a benefit; but I should like to talk, not with a doctor, but with some intimate friend who would understand me and would convince me that I was right or wrong.”

“Have you no friends?” asked Korolyov.

“I am lonely.  I have a mother; I love her, but, all the same, I am lonely.  That’s how it happens to be. . . .  Lonely people read a great deal, but say little and hear little.  Life for them is mysterious; they are mystics and often see the devil where he is not.  Lermontov’s Tamara was lonely and she saw the devil.”

“Do you read a great deal?”

“Yes.  You see, my whole time is free from morning till night.  I read by day, and by night my head is empty; instead of thoughts there are shadows in it.”

“Do you see anything at night?” asked Korolyov.

“No, but I feel. . . .”

She smiled again, raised her eyes to the doctor, and looked at him so sorrowfully, so intelligently; and it seemed to him that she trusted him, and that she wanted to speak frankly to him, and that she thought the same as he did.  But she was silent, perhaps waiting for him to speak.

And he knew what to say to her.  It was clear to him that she needed as quickly as possible to give up the five buildings and the million if she had it—­to leave that devil that looked out at night; it was clear to him, too, that she thought so herself, and was only waiting for some one she trusted to confirm her.

But he did not know how to say it.  How?  One is shy of asking men under sentence what they have been sentenced for; and in the same way it is awkward to ask very rich people what they want so much money for, why they make such a poor use of their wealth, why they don’t give it up, even when they see in it their unhappiness; and if they begin a conversation about it themselves, it is usually embarrassing, awkward, and long.

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