fact that a displacement of the diaphragm was sometimes accompanied
by irregularities of the heart, or that a great number of neurotic
complaints were met with of late, or that Dymov had the day before
found a cancer of the lower abdomen while dissecting a corpse with
the diagnosis of pernicious anaemia. And it seemed as though they were
talking of medicine to give Olga Ivanovna a chance of being silent--that
is, of not lying. After dinner Korostelev sat down to the piano, while
Dymov sighed and said to him:

"Ech, brother--well, well! Play something melancholy."

Hunching up his shoulders and stretching his fingers wide apart,
Korostelev played some chords and began singing in a tenor voice, "Show
me the abode where the Russian peasant would not groan," while Dymov
sighed once more, propped his head on his fist, and sank into thought.

Olga Ivanovna had been extremely imprudent in her conduct of late. Every
morning she woke up in a very bad humour and with the thought that she
no longer cared for Ryabovsky, and that, thank God, it was all over now.
But as she drank her coffee she reflected that Ryabovsky had robbed her
of her husband, and that now she was left with neither her husband
nor Ryabovsky; then she remembered talks she had heard among her
acquaintances of a picture Ryabovsky was preparing for the exhibition,
something striking, a mixture of genre and landscape, in the style of
Polyenov, about which every one who had been into his studio went into
raptures; and this, of course, she mused, he had created under her
influence, and altogether, thanks to her influence, he had greatly
changed for the better. Her influence was so beneficent and essential
that if she were to leave him he might perhaps go to ruin. And she
remembered, too, that the last time he had come to see her in a
great-coat with flecks on it and a new tie, he had asked her languidly:

"Am I beautiful?"

And with his elegance, his long curls, and his blue eyes, he really
was very beautiful (or perhaps it only seemed so), and he had been
affectionate to her.

Considering and remembering many things Olga Ivanovna dressed and in
great agitation drove to Ryabovsky's studio. She found him in high
spirits, and enchanted with his really magnificent picture. He was
dancing about and playing the fool and answering serious questions with
jokes. Olga Ivanovna was jealous of the picture and hated it, but from
politeness she stood before the picture for