rd.
"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 Vol
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