five minutes in silence,
and, heaving a sigh, as though before a holy shrine, said softly:

"Yes, you have never painted anything like it before. Do you know, it is
positively awe-inspiring?"

And then she began beseeching him to love her and not to cast her off,
to have pity on her in her misery and her wretchedness. She shed tears,
kissed his hands, insisted on his swearing that he loved her, told him
that without her good influence he would go astray and be ruined. And,
when she had spoilt his good-humour, feeling herself humiliated, she
would drive off to her dressmaker or to an actress of her acquaintance
to try and get theatre tickets.

If she did not find him at his studio she left a letter in which she
swore that if he did not come to see her that day she would poison
herself. He was scared, came to see her, and stayed to dinner.
Regardless of her husband's presence, he would say rude things to her,
and she would answer him in the same way. Both felt they were a burden
to each other, that they were tyrants and enemies, and were wrathful,
and in their wrath did not notice that their behaviour was unseemly,
and that even Korostelev, with his close-cropped head, saw it all. After
dinner Ryabovsky made haste to say good-bye and get away.

"Where are you off to?" Olga Ivanovna would ask him in the hall, looking
at him with hatred.

Scowling and screwing up his eyes, he mentioned some lady of their
acquaintance, and it was evident that he was laughing at her jealousy
and wanted to annoy her. She went to her bedroom and lay down on her
bed; from jealousy, anger, a sense of humiliation and shame, she bit
the pillow and began sobbing aloud. Dymov left Korostelev in the
drawing-room, went into the bedroom, and with a desperate and
embarrassed face said softly:

"Don't cry so loud, little mother; there's no need. You must be quiet
about it. You must not let people see.... You know what is done is done,
and can't be mended."

Not knowing how to ease the burden of her jealousy, which actually set
her temples throbbing with pain, and thinking still that things might be
set right, she would wash, powder her tear-stained face, and fly off to
the lady mentioned.

Not finding Ryabovsky with her, she would drive off to a second, then to
a third. At first she was ashamed to go about like this, but afterwards
she got used to it, and it would happen that in one evening she would
make the round of all her female acquaintance