"Dvmov!" cried Olga Ivanovna, radiant with joy. "Dy- rnovl. ' she repeated, laying her head and both hands on his shoulder. "It is you? Why did you not come sooner? Why? Why?"
"I couldn't, mama! I am always busy, and when I end my work there's generally no train."
"How glad I am you've come! I dreamed of you all, all last night. Akh, if you knew how I love you—and how op- portunely you've comel You are my saviour! To-morrow we have a most original wedding." She laughed and re-tied her husband's tie. "A young telegraphist at the station, a certain Chikeldeyev, is going to be married. A handsome boy, not at all stupid; in his face, you know, there's something strong, bearish. . . . He'd sit admirably as model for a Varangian. We are all interested in him, and promised to come to the wedding. . . . He is a poor man, solitary and shy, and it would be a sin to refuse. Imagine! . . . after church there'll be the wedding, then all go to the bride's house . . . you understand . . . the woods, the birds' songs, sun-spots on the grass, and we ourselves—variegated spots on a bright green background. . . . Most original, quite in the style of the French impressionists! But what am I to wear, Dymov? I have nothing here, literally nothing . . . . No dress, no flowers, no gloves! . . . You must save me. Your arrival means that fate is on my side. Here are the keys, sweetheart! take the train home and bring my rose-coloured dress from the wardrobe. You know it; it's the first you'll see. Then in the chest of drawers—the bottom right-hand drawer—you'll find two boxes. At the top there's only tulle and other rags, but underneath you'll find flowers. Bring all the flowers— carefully! I don't know . . . then I'll choose. . . . And buy me some gloves."
"All right," said Dymov. "I'll get them to-morrow!"
"How to-morrow?" asked Olga Ivanovna, looking at him with surprise. "You can't do it to-morrow. The first train leaves at nine, and the wedding is at eleven. No, dear; go to-night! If you can't get back yourself to-morrow send a Ptessenger. The train is nearly due. Don't miss it, my soul!"
'All right!"
"A kh, how sorry I am to have to send you!" she said, and tears came into her eyes. "Why did I promise the telegraph clerk, like a fool!"
Dymov hastily gulped down a glass of tea, and, still smiling kindly. returned to the station. And the caviar, the cheese, and the white-fish were eaten by the actor and the two dark men.
IV
It was a still moonlight night of July. Olga Ivanovna stood on the deck of a Volga steamer and looked now at the river. now at its beautiful banks. Beside her stood Riabovsky, and affirmed that the black shadows on the water were not shadows but a dream; that this magic stream with its fantastic shimmer, this unfathomable sky, these mournful banks— which expre^ed but the vanity of life, and the existence of something higher, something eternal, something blessed— called to us to forget ourselves, to die, to fade into memories. The past was trivial and tedious, the future insignificant; and this magic night, this one night of life, would soon be past, would have hurried into eternity. Why, then, live?
And Olga Ivanovna listened, first to Riabovsky's voice, then to the midnight silence, and thought that she was im- mortal, and would never die. The river's turquoise hue, a hue she had never seen before, the sky, the banks, the black shadows, and the irresponsible joy which filled her heart, all whispered to her that she would become a great artist, that somewhere far away, beyond these distances, beyond the moonlight night, somewhere in infinite space there awaited success and glory, and the love of the world. When she looked earnestly into the distance, she saw crowds, lights; she heard. solemn music and cries of rapture; she saw herself in a white dress surrounded by flowers cast at her from all sides. And she believed that here beside her, leaning on the bulwark, &ood a really great man, a genius, the elected of God. He had already accomplished things beautiful, new, uncommon; what he would do when time had ripened his great talents would be greater immeasurably—that was written legibly in his face, his expre^ions, his relations to the world around. Of the shadows, the hues of nights, the moonlight, he spoke in language all his own, and unconsciously betrayed the power of his magic mastery over Nature. He was handsome and original; and his life, unhampered, free, alien to the trifles of the world, seemed the life of a bird.
"It is getting cold! " said Olga Ivanovna, shuddering.
Riabovsky wrapped her in his cloak and said mournfully—
"I feel myself in your power. I am a slave. Why are you so ravishing to-night?"
He looked at her steadily, and his eyes were so terrible that she feared to look at him.
"I love you madly . . ." he whispered, breathing against her cheek. "Say to me but one word, and I will not live . . . I will abandon my art. . . ." He stammered in his extreme agitation. "Love me, love. . . ."
"Don't speak in that way!" said Olga Ivanovna, closing her eyes. "It is terrible. And Dymov?"
"What is Dymov? Why Dymov? What have I to do with Dymov? The Volga, the moon, beauty, my love, my raptures . . . and no Dymov at all! . . . Akh, I know nothing. . . . I do not want the past; give me but one moment . . . one second!"
Olga lvanovna's heart beat quickly. She tried to think of her husband; but her whole past, her marriage, Dymov, even tile evening parties seemed to her trivial, contemptible, dull, needless, and remote. . . . And, indeed, who was Dymov? Why Dymov? What had she to do with Dymov? Did he exist really in Nature; was he only a dream?
"He has had more happiness than he could exptct, a simple and ordinary man," she thought, closing her eyes. "Let them «ondemn me, let them curse me; but I will take all and perish, take all and perish. . . . We must experience everything iŭ life. . . . Lord, how painful and how good!"
"Well, what? What?" stammered the artist, embracing her. He kissed her hands greedily, while she strove to with- draw them. "You love me? Yes? 0 what a nightl 0 night divine!"
"Yes, what a night!" she whispered, looking into his eyes which glittered with tears. Then she looked around her, clasped her arms about him, and kissed him firmly on the lips.
"We are near Kineshma," said a voice somewhere acro^ the deck.
Heavy footfalls echoed behind them. A waiter passed froffi the buffet.
"Waiter!" cried Olga Ivanovna, laughing and crying in her joy. "Bring us some wine."
Pale with excitement, the artist sat on a bench, and stared at Olga Ivanovna with grateful, adoring eyes. But in a mo- ment he shut these eyes, and said with a weary smile—
"1 am tired."
And he leaned his head against the bulwark.
v
The second of September was warm and windless but dull. Since early morning a light mist had wandered across the Volga, and at nine o'clock it began to rain. There was no hope of a clear sky. At breakfast Riabovsky told Olga Ivanovna that painting was the most thankless and tedious of arts, that he was no artist, and that only fools thought him talented. Then, for no cause whatever, he seized a knife and cut to pieces his best study. After breakfast, in bad humour, he sat at a window and looked at the river, and found it without life—dull, dead, and cold. All around spoke of frowning autumn's approach. It seemed already that the green carpet on the banks, the diamond flashes from the water, the clear blue distances—all thE: vanity and parade of Nature had been taken from the Volga and packed in a box until the coming spring; and that the ravens flying over the river mocked it and cried, "Naked! Naked!" Riabovsky listened to their cry, and brooded on the ex- naustion and loss of his talent: and he thought that all the world was conditional, relative, and stupid, and that he should not have tied himself up with this woman. In one word he was out of spirits and sulked.