great artist, and that somewhere in the distance, in the infinite space beyond the moonlight, success, glory, the love of the people, lay awaiting her.... When she gazed steadily without blinking into the distance, she seemed to see crowds of people, lights, triumphant strains of music, cries of enthusiasm, she herself in a white dress, and flowers showered upon her from all sides. She thought, too, that beside her, leaning with his elbows on the rail of the steamer, there was standing a real great man, a genius, one of God's elect.... All that he had created up to the present was fine, new, and extraordinary, but what he would create in time, when with maturity his rare talent reached its full development, would be astounding, immeasurably sublime; and that could be seen by his face, by his manner of expressing himself and his attitude to nature. He talked of shadows, of the tones of evening, of the moonlight, in a special way, in a language of his own, so that one could not help feeling the fascination of his power over nature. He was very handsome, original, and his life, free, independent, aloof from all common cares, was like the life of a bird.
'It's growing cooler,' said Olga Ivanovna, and she gave a shudder.
Ryabovsky wrapped her in his cloak, and said mournfully:
'I feel that I am in your power; I am a slave. Why are you so enchanting today?'
He kept staring intently at her, and his eyes were terrible. And she was afraid to look at him.
'I love you madly,' he whispered, breathing on her cheek. 'Say one word to me and I will not go on living; I will give up art...' he muttered in violent emotion. 'Love me, love....'
'Don't talk like that,' said Olga Ivanovna, covering her eyes. 'It's dreadful! How about Dymov?'
'What of Dymov? Why Dymov? What have I to do with Dymov? The Volga, the moon, beauty, my love, ecstasy, and there is no such thing as Dymov.... Ah! I don't know... I don't care about the past; give me one moment, one instant!'
Olga Ivanovna's heart began to throb. She tried to think about her husband, but all her past, with her wedding, with Dymov, and with her 'At Homes,' seemed to her petty, trivial, dingy, unnecessary, and far, far away.... Yes, really, what of Dymov? Why Dymov? What had she to do with Dymov? Had he any existence in nature, or was he only a dream?
'For him, a simple and ordinary man the happiness he has had already is enough,' she thought, covering her face with her hands. 'Let them condemn me, let them curse me, but in spite of them all I will go to my ruin; I will go to my ruin!... One must experience everything in life. My God! how terrible and how glorious!'
'Well? Well?' muttered the artist, embracing her, and greedily kissing the hands with which she feebly tried to thrust him from her. 'You love me? Yes? Yes? Oh, what a night! marvellous night!'
'Yes, what a night!' she whispered, looking into his eyes, which were bright with tears.
Then she looked round quickly, put her arms round him, and kissed him on the lips.
'We are nearing Kineshmo!' said some one on the other side of the deck.
They heard heavy footsteps; it was a waiter from the refreshment-bar.
'Waiter,' said Olga Ivanovna, laughing and crying with happiness, 'bring us some wine.'
The artist, pale with emotion, sat on the seat, looking at Olga Ivanovna with adoring, grateful eyes; then he closed his eyes, and said, smiling languidly:
'I am tired.'
And he leaned his head against the rail.
V
On the second of September the day was warm and still, but overcast. In the early morning a light mist had hung over the Volga, and after nine o'clock it had begun to spout with rain. And there seemed no hope of the sky clearing. Over their morning tea Ryabovsky told Olga Ivanovna that painting was the most ungrateful and boring art, that he was not an artist, that none but fools thought that he had any talent, and all at once, for no rhyme or reason, he snatched up a knife and with it scraped over his very best sketch. After his tea he sat plunged in gloom at the window and gazed at the Volga. And now the Volga was dingy, all of one even colour without a gleam of light, cold-looking. Everything, everything recalled the approach of dreary, gloomy autumn. And it seemed as though nature had removed now from the Volga the sumptuous green covers from the banks, the brilliant reflections of the sunbeams, the transparent blue distance, and all its smart gala array, and had packed it away in boxes till the coming spring, and the crows were flying above the Volga and crying tauntingly, 'Bare, bare!'
Ryabovsky heard their cawing, and thought he had already gone off and lost his talent, that everything in this world was relative, conditional, and stupid, and that he ought not to have taken up with this woman.... In short, he was out of humour and depressed.
Olga Ivanovna sat behind the screen on the bed, and, passing her fingers through her lovely flaxen hair, pictured herself first in the drawing-room, then in the bedroom, then in her husband's study; her imagination carried her to the theatre, to the dress-maker, to her distinguished friends. Were they getting something up now? Did they think of her? The season had begun by now, and it would be time to think about her 'At Homes.' And Dymov? Dear Dymov! with what gentleness and childlike pathos he kept begging her in his letters to make haste and come home! Every month he sent her seventy-five roubles, and when she wrote him that she had lent the artists a hundred roubles, he sent that hundred too. What a kind, generous-hearted man! The travelling wearied Olga Ivanovna; she was bored; and she longed to get away from the peasants, from the damp smell of the river, and to cast off the feeling of physical uncleanliness of which she was conscious all the time, living in the peasants' huts and wandering from village to village. If Ryabovsky had not given his word to the artists that he would stay with them till the twentieth of September, they might have gone away that very day. And how nice that would have been!
'My God!' moaned Ryabovsky. 'Will the sun ever come out? I can't go on with a sunny landscape without the sun....'
'But you have a sketch with a cloudy sky,' said Olga Ivanovna, coming from behind the screen. 'Do you remember, in the right foreground forest trees, on the left a herd of cows and geese? You might finish it now.'
'Aie!' the artist scowled. 'Finish it! Can you imagine I am such a fool that I don't know what I want to do?'
'How you have changed to me!' sighed Olga Ivanovna.
'Well, a good thing too!'
Olga Ivanovna's face quivered; she moved away to the stove and began to cry.
'Well, that's the last straw—crying! Give over! I have a thousand reasons for tears, but I am not crying.'
'A thousand reasons!' cried Olga Ivanovna. 'The chief one is that you are weary of me. Yes!' she said, and broke into sobs. 'If one is to tell the truth, you are ashamed of our love. You keep trying to prevent the artists from noticing it, though it is impossible to conceal it, and they have known all about it for ever so long.'
'Olga, one thing I beg you,' said the artist in an imploring voice, laying his hand on his heart—'one thing; don't worry me! I want nothing else from you!'
'But swear that you love me still!'
'This is agony!' the artist hissed through his teeth, and he jumped up. 'It will end by my throwing myself in the Volga or going out of my mind! Let me alone!'
'Come, kill me, kill me!' cried Olga Ivanovna. 'Kill me!'
She sobbed again, and went behind the screen. There was a swish of rain on the straw thatch of the hut. Ryabovsky clutched his head and strode up and down the hut; then with a resolute face, as though bent on proving something to somebody, put on his cap, slung his gun over his shoulder, and went out of the hut.
After he had gone, Olga Ivanovna lay a long time on the bed, crying. At first she thought it would be a good thing to poison herself, so that when Ryabovsky came back he would find her dead; then her imagination carried her to her drawing-room, to her husband's study, and she imagined herself sitting motionless beside Dymov and enjoying the physical peace and cleanliness, and in the evening sitting in the theatre, listening to Mazini. And a yearning for civilization, for the noise and bustle of the town, for celebrated people sent a pang to her heart. A peasant woman came into the hut and began in a leisurely way lighting the stove to get the dinner. There was a smell of charcoal fumes, and the air was filled with bluish smoke. The artists came in, in muddy high boots and with faces wet with rain, examined their sketches, and comforted themselves by saying that the Volga had its charms even in bad weather. On the wall the cheap clock went 'tic-tic-tic.'... The flies, feeling chilled, crowded round the ikon in the corner, buzzing, and one could hear the cockroaches scurrying about among the thick portfolios under the seats....
Ryabovsky came home as the sun was setting. He flung his cap on the table, and, without removing his muddy boots, sank pale and exhausted on the bench and closed his eyes.
