"It's quite possible she may go to the first performance," he
thought.

The theatre was full. As in all provincial theatres, there was a
fog above the chandelier, the gallery was noisy and restless; in
the front row the local dandies were standing up before the beginning
of the performance, with their hands behind them; in the Governor's
box the Governor's daughter, wearing a boa, was sitting in the front
seat, while the Governor himself lurked modestly behind the curtain
with only his hands visible; the orchestra was a long time tuning
up; the stage curtain swayed. All the time the audience were coming
in and taking their seats Gurov looked at them eagerly.

Anna Sergeyevna, too, came in. She sat down in the third row, and
when Gurov looked at her his heart contracted, and he understood
clearly that 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